


Set Me Free

by Femme (femmequixotic)



Series: Tales from the Special Branch [5]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Aurors, Bisexual!Blaise, Death Eater Registry, Death Eaters, Dementors, Developing Relationship, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional Conflict, Established Relationship, Government Conspiracy, Grimmauld Place, ICW, Jewish!Pansy, Legilimency, London, M/M, MACUSA | Magical Congress of the United States of America, Magical House, Magical Police Procedural, Necromancy, POC Hermione, Quahog administration, Slytherins Being Slytherins, Strong Friendships, Switching, Treason, Unspeakables, Wizarding History, Wizarding Politics, Wizarding Wars
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-14
Updated: 2019-02-26
Packaged: 2019-05-06 20:53:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 177,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14656020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/femmequixotic/pseuds/Femme
Summary: Seven-Four-Alpha are back in London with available resources of the Ministry tracking their every move. Draco Malfoy remains lost, last seen in Thibodaux, Louisiana, as MACUSA was closing in. Harry is raging, barely in control of his magic, and the rest of the team are battered and unsure. Their recent failure haunts them, as does the spectre of a MACUSA-Ministry alliance under the control of the Quahog administration and its shadow puppetmaster, Aldric Yaxley. The Dementor crisis with Luxembourg is brewing in the background, as is a conflict with Rodolphus Lestrange. And that's not even mentioning the bargain Blaise struck with Death to return his cup. The team have very little energy or resources for one fight, much less several of this magnitude simultaneously.Should they fail, though, political tyranny will grip both sides of the Atlantic and evils recently banished may return. Each of them is fighting for something they hold dear, but no victory comes without a price. Still, desperate situations call for desperate measures, and desperation appears to be all they have.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the final book in the Tales From the Special Branch series; our action starts two weeks after the end of [Dare to Think](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11924133/chapters/26949204). While it's not entirely crucial for you to have read the rest of the books first, it'll probably make a hell of a lot more sense if you have an inkling of the backstory. :) Title as always from Ms. Kylie Minogue.
> 
>  

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Draco loses track of time, Harry loses hope, and Blaise loses his composure in front of his mother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: torture, snake, traumatic brain injury.
> 
> It has begun!!! Welcome to the fourth and final novel-length story of Tales from the Special Branch!!! I can't believe this series is nearly as long as all seven HP books, and yet there's so much left to go. Thank you all SO MUCH for reading and joining me on the Seven-Four-Alpha rollercoaster--your comments give me life, and your love for the characters and their narrative spurs this crazy effort along.
> 
> No great undertaking happens alone: I owe an immense amount of love and kudos to sassy-cissa and noeon who are always there for me, even when feel like I've lost the plot. You're both the stars I steer this ship by! (Although, let's be real, given the current level of entanglements, it's becoming more of an armada).
> 
> Posting note: This book will post every three weeks in 20 installments, which should take us well into 2019 before it wraps up. I will aim to be as regular as possible, and, as always, status updates will be on tumblr if anything goes awry. Noe and I are moving house and changing jobs this summer, and RL has a way of creating urgent situations demanding of attention. Honestly, I'd usually rather be writing!

Draco's whole body hurts. 

Pain thrums through the muscles of his arms, bound and stretched wide, prickles across his skin, burns with every shallow breath he takes. He's broken at least a rib. Maybe more. Or maybe they're just bruised. He can't tell any longer. The pain coils and swells inside of him, but he tries to compartmentalise it, to shut it off in his mind, to block it into its own small mental box. He manages for one blessed moment of relief, and then it's back again, like the blow of a fist against his sternum. 

Or perhaps it _is_ a fist. 

Reality's taken on a fluidity that Draco can't describe. He's been blinded by a vision charm; he can't see more than an inch or two in front of him. Everything else is a dark haze, a shadowland spreading out around him. He's not certain how long he's been here. Hours. Days. Weeks. 

An eternity. 

The pain comes again, hard and fast, taking away Draco's breath, making him cry out with the agony of it all. 

He thinks he's standing, but then the charm shifts again, and he feels the bite of a chair edge beneath his thighs. He wonders if he's caught in a temporal loop, reliving the same set of moments over and over and over again. His jaw aches; he spits, and he tastes blood, rusty and thick against his tongue. 

A whisper comes from beyond the darkness, soft and sibilant, and for a moment Draco thinks it's _him_ again, walking through the halls of the Manor, that wretched serpent slithering by his side. And then Draco's on his feet, but his legs won't hold him up, and he's falling, striking the cold, stone floor with his knees, so hard that his entire body jolts, the pain twisting up inside of him again. Somehow his arms are free now, and he catches himself on his palms, breathing hard, his hair falling dirty and limp in his face. The stones are cold beneath his skin, and he sees a glimpse of his knuckles in the darkness, split open and caked with dried blood and dirt. 

"He's strong." It's a woman's voice, just past the shadows, and Draco can hear the faintest trace of a British accent behind the flatness of her tone. 

"Told you." The other voice he recognises. Mike Wilkinson, newly minted Director of Magical Security for MACUSA. "Fuck if I know how he's resisting us. We used these same techniques on high-level insurgents, and those bastards cracked in a few days."

So it's been longer than that, Draco thinks. He spits blood onto the floor, trying not to wretch as he does. He tries to tell himself he's been through worse, but he hasn't. Not even the Dark Lord was this sadistic. He tenses as he feels the pain start to roll through him again; the tightness of his muscles makes it worse, and Draco tries to relax into the shudders of agony. 

He can't. 

The woman moves closer; Draco sees the toes of her rose leather heels push through the shadows. She's still hidden by the charm, but Draco can smell her perfume, soft and light and floral. Expensive, Draco thinks. Definitely expensive. "How long can you keep him here?"

"As long as you want." Wilkinson's voice is nearby. Draco wonders if he could reach out and touch him, pull him from the thick darkness roiling around Draco's battered body. "Indefinitely, as long as I keep him off American soil."

"I'm not sure that will be necessary," the woman murmurs, and a long, pale hand extends from the shadows, fingernails polished a soft pink. Her skin's soft and warm when she touches Draco's cheek; he jerks his head back, oddly repulsed. Her shoes strike softly against the flagstones as she moves around him. Draco refuses to watch her, refuses to let her think he has any interest in her at all. She sighs, then steps back into the shadows. "I'll speak with my father," she says. "In the meantime…" She trails off, but not because she's uncertain. Draco doesn't even have to push out with his mind to realise that. This isn't a woman who hesitates. 

Wilkinson chuckles. "Don't worry. I'll keep that mind of his occupied."

And that's precisely what Draco's afraid of.

"Try not to break him too badly," the woman says, her voice dry and a bit sharp. "He does have some use to us, after all." And then she's walking away, her steps quick taps against the stone floor before they fade; Draco can hear the quiet thud of a door closing behind her. The room is silent for a long moment, the only sound the quiet rasp of Draco's ragged breath. His arms ache; they wobble beneath him, and Draco barely catches himself again before he crumples forward, his nose missing the stones by an inch, if that. 

Broad fingers twist through Draco's hair from behind, jerking his head up, pulling him backwards onto his knees, the sharp pain bringing tears to Draco's eyes. They seep out even as Draco tries to blink them away, tries not to show any weakness. But he's tired, and he feels stretched thin, his skin burning beneath the thumb that presses against his forehead. 

Wilkinson's face drifts out of the shadows, broad and square-jawed, almost as if it's not attached to his body. Draco blinks again, attempts to focus, but his vision's playing tricks with him. For a moment, he thinks he sees something move in the shadows. "Hello, my little Legilimens," Wilkinson says, his smile cold, cruel. He looks down on Draco for a moment, studying him, before his gaze flicks back behind Draco's shoulder. "Let him go."

The fingers pull away; Draco's body sags forward. Two of them then, he thinks. Maybe more. He breathes in, smelling the stink of himself, sweat and blood and Circe knows what other filth; the expansion of his lungs sends pain shooting through his side. Wilkinson squats beside him, still half in shadows, and Draco hears a soft rustle in the darkness, one that makes his entire body shudder. Wilkinson whispers something, a careful, slow rumbling hiss from between his teeth, and Draco tries to scramble backwards, but a pair of legs stop him, a booted foot pushes him towards Wilkinson. 

A snake slithers through the shadows, long and sinuous, as thick as Draco's bicep and glistening green, black markings curling across its scales. It raises its head, looks at Draco, its tongue flicking out from beneath its blunt nose. Draco's heart thuds against his chest. 

Wilkinson smoothes a fingertip along the snake's head. It tilts up, bumping against his knuckle at the caress. "Meet Lamia. She's lovely, isn't she?"

Draco's jaw twitches. He can barely breathe; his gaze is fixed on the snake in front of him. "If you like that sort of thing." His voice is a raw croak.

Lamia hisses, darting at Draco, and he jerks back. Wilkinson just laughs. "I'd be careful, if I were you," he says. "She doesn't particularly care for your family as it is." When Draco looks up at him, Wilkinson gives him a half-smile. "She had a mother, you see. Went by the name of Nagini." Draco flinches, and Wilkinson's smile widens. "I thought you'd remember that name." He stands back up, reaching into his pocket as he moves back into the shadows. The snake stays where she is, glittering black eyes watching Draco. A moment later there's the scratch of a match, then the flare of a flame. Wilkinson's face is illuminated as he lights a fag that dangles from his mouth. Smoke curls from the end, disappears into the darkness. He blows a stream of it towards Draco. "I've had her for a while, you know. She was a gift from a friend, I suppose you'd call him." He circles to Draco's side; Lamia follows him, and Draco gets a glimpse of her length. She's nearly as big as her mother had been. 

"The Dark Lord." Draco manages to push himself up to his knees. He can taste blood again in the back of his throat, mixed with bile. It's all he can do not to retch. 

"Not directly." Wilkinson's behind Draco now; Draco can hear the other man move back, out of the way, can smell the acrid stench of his fag. Another sibilant murmur, and Lamia shifts closer. "I was seventeen when she was given to me. Just out of Ilvermorny. The son of an old school friend of my mother's came back from a sabbatical in Albania--did I mention she was British? Perhaps I didn't." His fingers brush across the top of Draco's head. "Quirinus and I'd seen each other from time to time over the years, but he was different this time. Less of a pansy, which isn't saying much. But the things we'd talk about…" Wilkinson bends down, his breath warm against Draco's ear. "Some of it made sense." His chuckle is low. "He left me Lamia before he went back to Britain. She adores me, don't you, beautiful?" He flicks his fag towards Draco's cheek; the end gleams orange in the dark, and Draco flinches as bits of burning ash land against his skin.

The snake hisses again; Draco feels the lash of her tail against his ankle. He tries not to shudder, but he knows Wilkinson catches it. "Why should I care?" Draco manages to say. His jaw still hurts, and he thinks a tooth is loose. They must have hit him at some point. He can't remember. 

"Because she'll do anything for me," Wilkinson says, and the snap of his fingers echoes in the silent room. 

And then Lamia's wrapping herself around Draco before he can stop her, her scales warm and rough against Draco's bare skin, and he wants to scream, wants to push her away, to wriggle free. 

He can't move. 

Lamia's weight is tight and heavy against Draco's chest, and she constricts herself, squeezing just enough for Draco's ribs to crack, for pain to spark through him again, hot and bright and almost overwhelming. Panic starts to bubble up deep inside Draco, a sharp fear that he can't beat down, the memories of Nagini and the way she'd attacked at the Dark Lord's command slipping out, beating down Draco's compartmentalised mental defences. 

Draco draws in a ragged breath. _Harry_ , he thinks. _Remember I love you._ Lamia's tongue flicks against his cheek; he closes his eyes, waits for the strike. 

It doesn't come. 

"You think I'm going to kill you?" Wilkinson laughs in Draco's ear, and then he's standing, moving in front of Draco again. He takes another drag off his cigarette then drops it to the floor, grinding it into the flagstones with his heel as he unbuttons his sleeves, rolls them up his forearms. "Boy, we're only just beginning to play."

The force of the blow to Draco’s cheek nearly bowls him over. Only the tight coils of the snake around Draco keeps him upright. Another strike of Wilkinson’s fist and Draco hears his jaw crunch. Another and Draco’s nose crumples. 

Pain explodes through his head; blood spews from his nostrils, dripping down onto the shimmering snake scales, Gryffindor red against Slytherin green. 

Shadows swirl around them, cold and thick against Draco’s bloodied face, and he can feel them press into his mind, pushing through the cracks, worrying their way into the depths of his consciousness. 

He stills. Tries to breathe against the serpentine constriction around his chest, the raw crimson-tinted agony of it. Draco knows he can do this, knows that Burke and Durant have both trained him for this moment. He closes his eyes, grits his teeth. Forces the shadows from his mind, one excruciating tendril at a time until his thoughts shine clear again.

Wilkinson swears in frustration. “You fucking shit—“

And his fist swings into Draco’s jaw again. Knocks it loose with an awful crunch. 

Draco spits in Wilkinson's face, saliva and blood spattering across Wilkinson's cheek. A white-hot anger surges through him, almost dizzying in its glory. He struggles against Lamia's coils, fighting her even as she squeezes tighter, and for a moment, he thinks he's going to escape, going to be free. 

And then the Cruciatus hits him from behind, slamming into the nape of his neck, shuddering down his spine. 

Lamia's head rears back as the Cruciatus sparks across her scales, her mouth wide in a silent scream. She whips around, and the last thing Draco sees is the venom dripping from her fangs, Wilkinson's face a white blur behind her. 

The shadows twist around Draco, dark and heavy and full of misery, yet offering a silent release.

Draco can't help himself. He lets the shadows take him, envelop him, his mind still, silent, a cold refuge in the waves of pain crashing over him. 

_Harry,_ he thinks, and it becomes a mantra, steady and solid, the one hope that Draco can cling to in the darkness. 

Harry is his constant. His beacon. His reason for living. For fighting. For drawing one more breath after another. He sees him in the shadows, feels him, knows that Harry fills his heart, his mind. 

And as his body arches against the serpent's coils, every cell a burning agony, Draco's heart beats in rhythm to Harry's name, over and over and over again. 

"Harry," he chokes out, and he pushes back against the shadows, against Wilkinson, against the snake. 

Draco will never give in. Not whilst Harry is still waiting for him.

***

Hermione frowns down at the legal texts and papers spread out in front of her, the breadth of them nearly taking over the kitchen table. Her head aches; she's been sorting through them for hours now, carting half her desk home on this Friday night, and she still can't find the loophole she needs.

She rubs her temple, her fingers dipping beneath the edge of the ancient scrap of scarf holding her curls back. It's one her mother had given her back before she even went to Hogwarts, a length of red and turquoise Kitenge cloth, the remnant of an old dress that Hermione's grandmother had brought to London as a teenager when she and her own mother had left Dar es Salaam to join her father as he finished his D.Phil. at Oxford. The fabric's faded and a bit tattered now, but Hermione wouldn't ever throw it away. Not for the world. Her grandmother'd passed away two years after Hermione had started Hogwarts; she'd been so proud of Hermione for her magical skills, always eager at holidays for Hermione to tell her what she'd learned. Hermione can't bear to give up this one connection to her grandmother. Not after everything else she's lost in recent years.

"Everything all right, love?" Ron sets the last dinner dish down to dry on a tea towel spread out over the counter. He walks over, rests his hand on Hermione's shoulder; his palm is warm against the bare skin at the edge of her tank top. He traces a small circle against her shoulder blade with his thumb. The quiet intimacy of the touch relaxes Hermione, and she leans back in her chair, resting her head against his hip. Ron leans down and kisses the top of her head. "It's just you've been staring at those same papers for a half-hour now."

"MACUSA's still blocking me," she says after a moment. "Every diplomatic channel I've tried dries up the moment they find out I'm looking for Malfoy." She bites her lip. "I can't find him, Ron. Alma Espinoza says she's not seeing a record of him in the Oudepoort inmate listings, so they've probably put him in one of the extrajudicial camps, the ones they're using for interrogating terrorist suspects." She looks up at Ron, sees the frown of worry that furrows his brow. "If I ask about that, it's suddenly classified, and I'm shunted off to someone else."

Ron pulls out the chair next to her and sits, heavily. His face is set, solemn, and Hermione knows what he's thinking before he says, "It's been two weeks." He hesitates and adds, "More than, really."

Hermione looks down at the spread of papers. She runs a finger along the edge of one file jacket, thickly warded, the red _eyes only_ tape sparking at her touch. "I know." It's the first of September now, and half the Ministry had been out this morning, taking their children to King's Cross. Hermione wonders if she and Ron will ever make that trek with them. They've been talking more and more about having kids lately; Hermione's gone off her contraceptive potions, even if they're still using Muggle condoms for now. She thinks she might be ready to be a mom, despite how scared she still finds herself at the thought of being responsible for another human being. But there's no one else in this world she'd rather raise a child with than Ron. With him beside her, she thinks she might actually make a decent parent one day. She wonders what it would be like to wave goodbye to her son or daughter as the Express pulls out, headed for Scotland, wonders if her parents had been apprehensive the first time she'd left home. 

"This will kill Harry if you can't get him out." Ron's voice is soft, quiet in the warmth of their kitchen. He's not accusatory, just stating a fact, Hermione knows, but she still feels a flinch of guilt. He catches her hand as she looks away. "It's not you, love."

Hermione nods, but her throat is tight and raw. She curls her fingers through Ron's thicker ones, his golden freckles such a contrast to her brown skin. He's been her rock for so long; she doesn't know what she'd do without him. Maybe it's not quite the same for Harry and Malfoy, but Hermione thinks it might be. They've always been a matched set, the two of them, whether they hated or loved each other. They'd always done it so fiercely, so completely. Hermione doesn't believe in soulmates, not really, but she can't help but think there must be something that had drawn Harry to Malfoy, like the proverbial moth to a flame. Something deep and primal and _old_ in its own way. The same sort of magic that kept her grounded to Ron, however hard they've had to work at times to stay tethered together. 

"I have to do something," Hermione says after a moment, and she shifts in her chair, moves closer to lean against the solidity of Ron, breathing in the familiar scent of him. His other hand smoothes her hair back, his knuckles brush her cheek. It's a simple gesture, but comforting, the way only Ron can do. She wonders what it would be like if he was kept from her the way Malfoy's being kept from Harry, wonders how mental she'd go, what she'd do to find him. "Harry's not doing well."

Ron sighs. "I know." He worries his lip between his teeth. "Ever since I brought him that soup Monday, he's stopped answering when I ring him up. Floo or mobile. I tried to go by Grimmauld after work today, but Kreacher wouldn't let me through the hearth. The whole fucking place reeked of firewhisky."

And that's what Hermione's been afraid of. Harry hasn't been at the Ministry for the past two days. Or at least Hermione hasn't seen him. Not since Gawain Robards ordered him to stay out of the diplomatic negotiations for Malfoy's release. The same bloody negotiations that Hermione keeps being stonewalled on. She pulls away from Ron, reluctantly. She doesn't want to admit to him that the last time she and Harry had spoken, on Wednesday before he'd stormed out of Kingsley's office, she'd lost her temper, told Harry he needed to pull his head out of his arse, that Gawain was right, Harry was about to bugger every bloody thing up, that if he wasn't sodding careful he might cause Malfoy to be hurt, or worse yet, killed, and was that really what he wanted?

Harry's face had gone grey; he'd just looked at her as if Hermione had gutted him, and before she could apologise, could tell him she hadn't meant any of that, Harry had turned on his heel and walked away, not bothering to look back when she called after him. 

But Hermione knows she hadn't been entirely wrong. There's nothing that Harry can do to help Malfoy. The Ministry's forbidden him to leave England, lest he do anything stupid and diplomatically disastrous--Kingsley knows Harry too damned well not to put a tracker on him that will activate when he crosses a border, even one as close as Wales or Scotland. Hermione'd suggested it, for all of Seven-Four-Alpha, although that's another thing she won't admit to Ron. But Kingsley had asked her opinion on their flight risk, and Hermione had answered truthfully. Besides, MACUSA has a warrant out for Harry's arrest if he steps in the country again. For all of them, really: Zabini and Parkinson and Whitaker and, especially, Jake. Hermione feels for him too, if she's honest. He's seeking asylum in Britain, as Tom Graves is as well, and Hermione can't imagine Kingsley won't approve it. But still, Jake's lost his country, his home, his friends, all in one fell swoop. 

And Lestrange is still out there, hiding away somewhere with Death's cup in hand. Saul Croaker's furious about that; Hermione's never seen his face go so apoplectically purple as when Harry'd told them what they'd lost, what Rodolphus Lestrange had taken from them. She'd thought Saul and Harry would come to blows over that, particularly when Harry was more interested in demanding they go back for Malfoy. 

Hermione rubs her palms over her face. She hasn't been sleeping well recently; she's too worried to rest, and she startles awake halfway through the night, her mind unable to settle. Last night she'd sat in bed for nearly an hour, watching Ron sleep, his face pale in the moonlight, half-wishing he'd wake up too and hold her until her heart stopped racing. 

"I don't know what else to do," Hermione says after a moment. She looks over at Ron. "If Wilkinson has Malfoy hidden away, I don't know how we can find him. Not even Martine or Alma can track him down in the system, and they've confidential access." Her stomach twists, and she tries to breathe out, tries not to imagine what might happen to Harry if they fail, if Malfoy doesn't come back to him. 

Ron knows what she's thinking. "We'll be here for Harry," he says after a moment. He pulls at the stretched-out collar of his Wicked Sisters t-shirt, the one he'd bought after the war the first time he and Hermione and Harry had gone out to a concert together. They all have one, bought together at the merch stand in a half-pissed state of gleeful revelry, but Ron's worn his nearly to shreds. "Whether or not he thinks he needs us." 

There's a tinge of hurt in his voice, and Hermione knows it's hard for him when Harry pushes them away. It always has been; there's a part of Ron that's certain one day Harry's going to think Ron's useless, that Harry's going to walk away. It's ridiculous, of course. Harry needs Ron more than anyone else except Malfoy, in Hermione's opinion. They're brothers beneath the skin. Nothing's going to change that. 

"He'll be all right," Hermione says. She has to believe that. The idea that Harry wouldn't be is anathema to her. Harry loses his way sometimes, but he's always found it again, always landed on his feet. But deep down inside of her, she can't help but wonder if he will this time. If losing Malfoy might be the one thing that unmoors Harry, that pushes him past his point of self-control. She hasn't told Ron yet, but Harry's magic is more erratic than it has been before. Furious at being blocked from looking for Malfoy, he'd set a panel of velvet drapes on fire in Kingsley's office; only Gawain's quick wandwork had quenched the flames before they spread too badly. Still, the alarm had gone off and the Ministry had been evacuated. A story's been spread about some sort of faulty magical sconce gone wonky, but Hermione's worried the truth will come out. She knows that wasn't the first time in the past fortnight something like that had happened, even if Harry's team is trying to hide that fact. The last thing they need is for Griselda Marchbanks to discover that. She's already making a meal of Malfoy's arrest, trying to frame the narrative to fit her own agenda. 

Terrifyingly, it's working. Support for the Death Eater Registration Act is rising; Hermione's heard whispers from the solicitors that a draft of it will go before the Wizengamot for a vote soon. Her only hope is that it gets beaten down by saner heads, but Hermione's never had a great deal of confidence in British wizarding politics. Its idiocy is surpassed only that of the Muggle government in some ways. 

Ron reaches out again, his palm out. Hermione lays her hand in his; his fingers curl around hers, squeezing gently. "We'll make Harry listen to us." His smile is lukewarm. "If we shout through the Floo long enough, maybe we'll annoy him into dropping the wards."

Hermione wishes that were true. But they've both dealt with a stubborn, furious Harry before. If he thinks he knows what's right, there's no arguing with him, not until he comes to his senses. She just hopes that happens before he does something stupidly, utterly reckless and rash. 

The sort of thing only a Gryffindor in love would think a good idea. 

She bites her lip, worry welling up in her once more, then she glances over at Ron. Speaking of recklessly Gryffindor ideas, she thinks, then she says, "Feel like breaking a law?"

Ron's thick eyebrows go up. "Depends. Is it fun?"

"Not at all." Hermione reaches out, picks up a file jacket. A touch of her finger on the side and the wards fall open; she pulls out a sheaf of papers and hands them Ron. "Just a spot of light classified reading for a Friday night." Her mouth tugs up on one side. "I could use the extra eyes, just in case I'm missing something." Not to mention Ron's strategic brain. Sometimes she thinks he would have made a brilliant barrister if memorising the legal code during Auror training hadn't bored him senseless. 

"I suppose I can try." Ron looks at the papers, a bit dubious, but, to his credit, he takes them, shuffling through the stack. "Exactly how much trouble would I get into for reading these? Are we talking solitary in Azkaban level?"

Hermione picks up another file. "Probably worse," she admits, knowing full well that's not a deterrent for her husband. "More like Saul hanging you from your testicles in a locked room down in Mysteries."

"Sweet." Ron leans back in his chair, papers in hand. "Always knew that old bastard was a kinky sod."

"You're incorrigible," Hermione says with a shake of her head, but the tightness in her heart's easing a tad. They'll figure this out somehow, bring Malfoy home to Harry. They have to, she thinks, bending her head back over the stack of files once more.

If only for Harry's sake.

***

The knock comes on Pansy's door just after she's said the blessing over her glass of wine. She doesn't know why she's back to reciting the prayers over the candles on Friday evenings. She's gone long stretches of her adult life without bothering, but now it feels important. Necessary. Perhaps it's superstitious of her, but she can't help but think Seven-Four-Alpha needs any good fortune they can get, the whole lot of them, and something deep down inside makes her want to say the Hebrew prayers, want to believe that perhaps, if they're fortunate, Hashem might be listening.

She's worried constantly. About Draco and wherever the hell he is, about Althea, still being held in hospital with her injuries, about Blaise and his determined, grim silence whenever Pansy brings up his father, about the guv and the bottle Pansy knows he's hiding in the bottom drawer of his desk, the one she's certain he takes a deep swig from whenever he starts to get shaky, whenever his temper sets yet another stack of files on fire. 

And here, for a few moments at least on a Friday evening, just before the sun begins to set, she can murmur the prayers her mother had taught her as soon as she was out of baby babble, and she can feel a breath of calmness go through her, a chance to believe that somehow things might be set right again. 

It's a powerful hope, she's found. 

The knock echoes again, louder this time, and Pansy takes a long sip of the wine before sighing and walking towards the door, the round globe of her glass cupped between her fingers. The red wine sloshes up the sides, rich and deep. She's opened up a good bottle of kosher tonight--none of that awful cheap wine, the kind that's too sweet to bear. Pansy has every bloody intention of getting sauced before she tumbles into bed. It's the only way she'll be able to sleep. 

When she opens the door, she blinks in surprise. Camilla Hirsch Parkinson herself is standing there, in a trim, sleeveless black dress that shows her toned arms off to best effect, her short, black-brown curls swept to one side over her forehead. 

"Mother," Pansy says, almost automatically. "I wasn't expecting you."

And why should she be? Her mother's never spent a Shabbat evening away from home, not without the whole family beside her. 

Camilla looks a bit awkward, once more surprising Pansy. She's never really seen her mother on her back foot. Camilla's always done the right thing, said the right thing. It feels odd to see the look of uncertainty that crosses her mother's face as she says, "Might I come in, Pansy?"

Pansy has no other choice than to step back, let her mother into her flat. Camilla's gaze immediately goes to the silver candlesticks set on Pansy's chimneypiece, the squat white candles burning brightly in them, their fat flames flickering, reflected in the glass of the surrounding picture frames. 

"Gut Shabbos," Camilla says, leaning in to kiss Pansy's cheek. Pansy murmurs the greeting back, half in surprise, half in bemusement as she closes the door behind her mother. She takes another sip of her wine, then follows her mother to the sofa, sitting gingerly on the opposite side. She turns her glass between her fingers, waiting quietly as her mother smoothes the hem of her dress down over her knees. Always the proper lady, Pansy thinks, with just a little bitterness. 

They sit in silence for a long moment, then Camilla says, "I'm glad you're using your candlesticks." She hesitates, before adding, "Your grandmother would be proud."

She probably would, Pansy thinks. The candlesticks had been her grandmother's for decades; Pansy can remember helping her sister polish them each Friday afternoon before setting them out on the table to be lit before Shabbos dinner. They'd been the one thing from her grandparents' house she'd insisted on keeping, even if she'd had to fight Daisy for them. 

The thought of Daisy makes Pansy's heart ache. Draco's gone, Daisy's gone. Pansy doesn't know how much more worry she can pile on herself for the people she loves. 

And now her mother's here, sat in the middle of Pansy's untidy flat, a satchel half-full of yet-to-be-washed clothes from Thibodaux perched on the ottoman where she'd dropped it a fortnight ago, boxes of file jackets still tucked in the corner of the sitting room, a stack of them set out on the coffee table. Pansy thinks about sweeping them away, hiding them from her mother's sharp eye, but she hasn't the energy to care, if she's honest. 

Camilla folds her hands in her lap. She looks uncomfortable, and Pansy wonders if she's a terrible daughter for being pleased about that. Still, she'll be damned if she won't make her mother work for this, whatever this conversation is that Camilla obviously both does and doesn't want to have with Pansy. 

Pansy drains her glass of wine, then reaches for the bottle she's left beside the stack of files and pours another. Her mother just watches her, and Pansy waits for the reprimand, the sharp reminder that Pansy neither needs the alcohol, nor the calories. 

But Camilla stays silent, and that worries Pansy. She studies her mother over the rim of her glass. Camilla's face is pale; she's barely wearing any makeup. Only a touch of powder and a bit of pink lippie. And there are strands of silver threaded through her temples--not many, but enough to surprise Pansy. Her mother's always been careful about her appearance, vain enough to hide any signs of aging. 

And Camilla looks tired, with faint smudges of shadows beneath her dark brown eyes. She sweeps long, elegant fingers across her dress, smoothing out non-existent wrinkles, straightening the hem, and it's only then that Pansy realises her mother's hand is ringless. Camilla catches Pansy's look, and she stills, the fingers of her other hand brushing lightly across the pale circle where her wedding ring had rested for over thirty years. 

"I suppose," Camilla says slowly, her gaze sliding away from Pansy's, "that's what I've come to say." 

Pansy lowers her glass of wine, an odd emptiness starting to seep through her. "You've left Daddy." This isn't what she's wanted. Not now. Not when the rest of her world's been upended, when Draco isn't here to help her through this. And a flare of anger twists up then sharp and fierce, and Pansy's not certain if it's meant for Draco who'd been so stupidly foolish as to sacrifice himself for the guv or for her mother who's putting yet one more thing on Pansy, one more crack in the once perfect facade of their family.

Her mother doesn't answer for a moment, and then she sighs, soft and unhappy. "I had to."

It's not as if Pansy doesn't understand. She's never known how her mother puts up with Terry Parkinson. As much as Pansy loves her father, she's not unaware of his issues. Terry loves wine, women, and work more than anything else, and his wife and daughters had all too often fallen by the wayside. He loves them. They all know that. But sometimes, Pansy thinks, love might not be enough.

"Was it the other women?" she asks, her voice soft. 

Camilla brushes a stray curl from her cheek, tucks it behind an ear. "They didn't help the situation." She looks away, and Pansy can see the faint lines around her mother's eyes, her mouth. Camilla's in her late fifties, but even with the whispers of age starting to show, she's still a beautiful woman. "I could have looked past them," she says finally. "I always have before."

"Then what made this time different?" Pansy has to know. She's never seen her mother like this before. The composed perfection of Camilla Hirsch Parkinson is just an illusion, and that realisation is bittersweet to Pansy. There's something unsettling about realising her mother has feet of clay. 

Her mother doesn't answer at first. Instead she stands, walks over to the hearth. She studies the candlesticks, running a finger along the engraved silver, tracing the curve of the vines twining up around their length. "Lighting these with Mother was always my favourite part of Shabbos," she says, and she looks back at Pansy. "And when I had you and Daisy, I was thrilled to teach you the same prayers she'd taught me." Her eyes are soft, more gentle than Pansy's seen them in years. "I'm glad you're still saying them."

"It seemed a good idea," Pansy says. "What with everything that's been going on lately."

Camilla nods. "I'm sorry about Draco."

Pansy's throat tightens. She takes another sip of her wine. "I don't want to talk about it." Her voice comes out harsher than she intends, but her mother doesn't flinch. 

"You should," Camilla says, her voice soft in the silence in of the room. "I know you must blame yourself--"

"Mother," Pansy says sharply, and Camilla falls silent. Pansy knows her mother means well, and if Pansy's honest, Camilla's not wrong. She does blame herself. If she hadn't been so focused on Althea, perhaps she would have been able to stop Draco from being so bloody, idiotically _stupid._ And now he's Merlin only knows where with the Americans, and Pansy doesn't even want to think about what they might be doing to him. She can't. They've already lost Potter to drink lately. Pansy can't follow him down that path, as much as she might want to. She has to take care of the others, as best she can. Draco would want her to, even if none of them save Althea seems to notice or appreciate it. 

Pansy's hand shakes as she lifts the glass of wine again, blinks back the well of hot tears that threatens to overwhelm her. This is all too much, she thinks. This summer of her life falling apart. The wine is sour against her tongue, and she swallows it, her stomach turning. Pansy's been wondering recently, had she known where she'd be now, would she still have accepted the assignment with Seven-Four-Alpha back in May? 

To be honest, she doesn't know. Perhaps none of them should have. Perhaps everything they've done has been cursed. They've all lost something in the course of this case; all their familial secrets have been ripped apart, laid bare. Pansy had thought she'd lost her innocence during the wizarding war of her childhood. Now, however, she realises how much more has been stripped away.

She exhales, looks over at her mother. "I'd rather talk about why you've decided to do this now."

Camilla turns away from the hearth, walks back to the sofa. She sits carefully, perched on the edge of the cushion, her fingers twisted together, her knees pressed primly to one side. "The thing is," she says finally, and then she hesitates, draws in a slow, uneven breath. "I could have overlooked so many things your father has done." Her laugh is bitter, soft. "I have for so long, after all." She looks down at her hands, almost as if she doesn't recognise them, Pansy thinks, and perhaps she doesn't, not without her rings. "But that narish mamzer put my girls in danger this time." Camilla glances up at Pansy, and there's a tightly contained fury glinting in her eyes that takes Pansy aback. "First Daisy, and now you. I don't care what game he's playing. I don't care what utter cock up he's trying to fix--" And her mother's language makes Pansy blink in surprise as much as her anger. "I won't have you hurt. Either of you, really, but you're the one I worry about the most."

Pansy just looks at her mother. "I don't understand," she starts to say, but Camilla just shakes her head. 

"You've always said I was harder on you than Daisy," her mother says. She glances away, rubs her thumb across the finger she would have worn her ring on, almost as if she's expecting it to be there. "And I was, I suppose." Camilla bites her lip, and the glance she gives Pansy is hesitant. Pansy doesn't know what to do with that. This isn't Camilla she's familiar with. "But perhaps it's because I've always seen far more of myself in you, my little Rahel." She reaches out, touches Pansy's cheek. "I never wanted you to make my mistakes." Her knuckles brush across Pansy's skin, featherlight; her eyes shine bright with tears that, with a slow blink, spill over, dampening her cheeks. "Your sister, ah, she'll do what she wants, and probably land on her feet, the same as your father, but you and I, maideleh, we're different. We feel too much, and we shut ourselves away in order not to, yes?"

And Pansy can't argue. Not really. "So you left Daddy because of me and Daisy."

Camilla snorts and purses her mouth. She wipes a thumb beneath her eyes, smearing the wetness away. Her chin goes up, almost defiantly, and Pansy lets out a soft huff of relief at the familiarity of her mother's disdain. "I left your father because he's a complete putz, is why. He's put his money over our safety, bringing those sorts into our house again after I told him last time I wouldn't stand for it any longer. But he always has to play the game, Terry does. Act as if he's bigger than all the others, and where does it get him, I ask you?" 

"Dancing around Azkaban, I'd say," Pansy murmurs into her wineglass, but Camilla's not listening.

Her mother throws up her hands in disgust. "Hobnobbing with those wretches again, certain that he's smarter than them and paying no mind to what I say or think." Her bottom lip trembles; she turns away, takes an uneasy breath. "And now he's bollocksed everything up, hasn't he? I'd say it's losing his hair that's made him this thick, but it's more that your father's always been a bit of an idiot when it comes to this sort of thing." She looks over at Pansy. "I can't do it any longer, love. I can't pretend. About the women or the just this side of legal business dealings." Her shoulders slump. "Even if Michal Goldstein's pitying me at shul now." Her mouth twists bitterly. "What an awful yachneh."

Pansy bites back a wild laugh. Her mother will always be in a pitched battle with Tony's, it seems. She turns her glass between her fingers, watching the wine slosh up the sides, and then she holds it out to her mother. "I think you need this more than I do."

For a moment she thinks Camilla's going to refuse it, but her mother reaches out, takes the glass from her. Their fingers brush against each other; Camilla's are cold and a bit trembling. 

"You can't go back to Norfolk tonight," Pansy says, but her mother's already shaking her head. 

"I'm not staying at the house." Camilla lifts the glass to her mouth and takes a sip. She doesn't look at Pansy. "I couldn't, and your father wouldn't leave. You know how stubborn he can be." She licks the remnants of the wine from the curve of her lip as she lowers the glass, rests it against her thigh. "I have a key to Daisy's old London flat. I'm there for now."

"Oh," Pansy says. She studies her mother, the curve of her cheek, the set of her jaw. This is serious, she realises, and her stomach twists at the thought that her parents' marriage might actually end over this. She doesn't know what to think, not really. Her parents have always been a constant in her life, her mother's calm acceptance of her father's foibles something that Pansy never thought would change. But if Camilla left her beloved house behind, if she's willing to let the shul know she's walking away from her husband, then Pansy's not sure her mother will forgive her father this misstep. She lays her hand over Camilla's, leaning across the sofa to curl her fingers around her mother's. "Still," Pansy says, trying to keep her voice light. "You'll stay here with me? I might like a bit of Shabbos company." She never thought she'd say that, never thought she'd want her mother here beside her like this, but she needs Camilla right now, needs to have the comfort of her mother to help keep away the grief and worry that keeps rising up in her. Everything's upside down with Draco gone, with Althea still in hospital, with the guv drinking his way to the bottom of a bottle every day, with Blaise so distant and silent, lost in his own anger and fear and misery.

Camilla hesitates for the briefest moment. Disappointed, Pansy starts to pull her hand back, but her mother grips it, tightly. She glances over at Pansy, and Pansy can see the deep weariness etched in Camilla's face. "Thank you," Camilla says, her voice quiet. "If you'll have me, I'd like that."

Pansy nods and sinks back against the cushions of the sofa, her mother shifting closer to her, their fingers still curled together. 

The candles burn brightly on the chimneypiece, faint flickers of hope in the silent shadows that surround them both.

***

Blaise sits alone in the Muggle pub down the street from his flat, nursing a whisky. He's tired, worn out. He'd left Jake back in the sitting room, reading; Blaise had just needed to get away, to be by himself. He feels as if his skin's a bit too tight; he's never shared space well, even back in school. Really, he's only himself to blame, and he knows this. Jake had meant to find a bedsit of his own, but it'd been impossible given that MACUSA's frozen his bank accounts. The small amounts of money Jake had tucked away in a Luxembourg Gringotts account isn't going to last long, and when the guv had offered Jake a room in Grimmauld, Blaise had bristled, every last bit of Veela in him twisting up in a flurry of anger and jealousy. He'd told Jake in no uncertain terms he was staying at Blaise's flat, and Jake hadn't argued.

It's been good to wake up beside Jake every morning. And now Blaise's half-used to sharing his bed for the full night, to turning in his sleep to drape himself across the comforting solidity of Jake's body. And when he comes home from work, Jake's there to hand him a bottle of beer and dinner. Blaise doesn't feel as lonely as he had before earlier in the summer when Draco had been so caught up in the guv and Blaise had been at loose ends most nights. But sometimes the old uneasy scratch starts again, that feeling he's had in other relationships of being trapped, that panic that comes when he thinks of settling down. 

Somehow Jake seems to know, seems to understand. He'd been the one who'd pushed Blaise out the door tonight, told him to go find a place where he could breathe. Blaise hadn't known where else to go other than the pub, if he's honest. Pansy's no use; she's been spending most of her time outside of work in St Mungo's or looking after Althea's dad. The guv's not an option either; it's not even the drinking that bothers Blaise, if he's honest. Or the bursts of anger. He understands all of that; Blaise thinks that if it were him in Potter's shoes, he'd have either crawled into a bottle and sealed the damned thing shut or imploded the entire fucking Ministry around them all. Maybe both. But Blaise can't bear the pain etched into Potter's face now. It brings up his own grief about Draco, his own worries about what's happening to his best friend, his own realisation of his uselessness when it comes to doing anything about any of this. And Blaise has already sat on Millie's sofa twice this past week; he can't bear to put her and Hannah through dealing with him again. Greg's out of town for the weekend, and Blaise thinks he might deck Theo if he had to put up with the bastard's political pontificating tonight, so he'd had no other choice than to sit himself down here with an eighteen-year Glenfiddich. 

He twists the glass between his fingers. The remnants of whisky gleam golden in the warm light from the lamp hanging over his table. It's taken Blaise a good hour to get down to the last bits; he's reluctant to down another swallow. To be honest, he's not certain he's ready to go back to the flat yet. 

Blaise closes his eyes, leans his head back against the plaster wall. The pub's not posh, but it's tidy and serviceable on a busy Friday night, and the barkeep has a good stock of whiskies on the upper shelves. Blaise wonders if he could sleep here, but he knows that's ridiculous. Last call will come soon enough, and he'll be out on the street again, walking back up to his flat. To Jake. 

Something warm and pleasant flutters in Blaise's belly at that thought. He knows most of this is just nerves. They haven't talked much about what this is between them, he and Jake. Blaise knows he should, knows that he's going to have to admit to Jake that the Veela in Blaise has chosen him for his mate. But that's a conversation Blaise can't have right now. Not with everything the way it's been for the past two and a half weeks. Blaise still needs his secrets, still needs to come to terms with what he'd discovered about himself, about his father back in Thibodaux. But Blaise feels too raw right now to think about all of that. So instead he just breathes, tries to empty his mind, tries to just _be_ , here in the pub with the sounds of Muggle conversation and laughter drifting around him. 

Until, at least, he hears another sigh, a familiar one that makes his eyes open, makes him sit up in his wooden chair, the uneven legs wobbling ever so slightly as he does. 

"Hello, Blaise," his mother says, and he can't believe she's standing in front of him, here of all places, looking perfectly put together in her tailored red dress, her hair dark curls shorter than he's ever seen them.

"You cut your hair" is all Blaise can say, and his mother's vain enough to touch her curls, a pleased look on her face. 

"I needed a change." Olivia pulls out the chair opposite Blaise. "May I?"

Blaise just shrugs. His mother will do what she wants to do, he knows that. He studies her as she sits. Beneath the polished Olivia Zabini facade he knows so well, he can see the strain in her face, the dark circles she's tried, a bit haphazardly, to hide. He and his mother haven't spoken since before Blaise went to Thibodaux, since the night he'd admitted to his mother Jake was his mate. It's not as if Blaise hasn't tried. The first week back in London, he'd firecalled every place he thought she'd be staying, rang up every mobile number he had for her. She'd never answered. To be honest, Blaise has no idea where his mother's been, and there's part of him that doesn't give a damn. 

He swallows the last of his whisky as his mother sits. "How'd you find me?"

Olivia's dark gaze is fixed on his face. "Mr Durant kindly told me where he thought you might be when I firecalled your flat." She's silent for a moment, studying Blaise, and he looks away, his jaw tight. He grips his glass tightly in his hand, his thumb pressing hard enough against the rim to leave a faint dent in his skin. He pulls it away, watches his thumb fill out again. His mother sighs. "So he's staying with you now, I see. You've told him?"

"Not yet," Blaise says, and he glances at his mother, almost bitterly. "He doesn't have any place else to go."

"Darling, one always has someplace else to go if one wishes." Olivia doesn't look away from him, as much as Blaise wishes she might. She folds her arms across her chest. "You can't keep this from him forever, you know. He'll realise it eventually." Her face softens, if only a bit. "It's best if it comes from you."

Blaise sets his glass down onto the worn surface of the table, battered by generations of pub-goers. Someone's scratched _cock_ into the wood at his left elbow in the grand British comedic tradition. Yobs, Blaise thinks, and then he sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose. He feels a tension headache coming on. "Mother, I haven't the spirit for one of our discussions tonight," he says. "It's been a long day and a longer fortnight, and frankly, work's been quite the devil. I'm tired, and I just want a bloody hour to myself without being harangued by you, as much as I might enjoy it some evenings."

Olivia sits forward, a frown scoring her forehead for the briefest of moments before it smoothes out. "Watch your tongue." She eyes the table warily before she rests her elbows on it. "You're the one who's been trying to reach me."

"Until I bloody well realised you were avoiding me!" Blaise's voice rises; a couple a table or two away glances over at them. Blaise tries to calm himself; he breathes out, looks away from his mother. 

Her hand settles over his. He thinks about pulling away, but there's something gentle in the way she touches him, the way her fingers curl over his. Blaise stills, his throat raw and hot and tight. "I needed some time," Olivia says. She smoothes a thumb over Blaise's wrist, one crimson nail scraping lightly across his skin. "There are things you don't know--"

"Oh, I think I do." Blaise can't keep the bitterness out of his voice. He sits back, his fingers sliding from his mother's. "It's why you didn't want me to go to Thibodaux, why you were so upset when you found out about me and Jake--"

"Blaise," his mother says, but he ignores her. 

"I know it all, Mother." Blaise presses his fingertips to his forehead. It's throbbing now, and his whole body feels tight, stretched. "So you can stop it with all the stupid lies you've told me about my father over the years. Starting with the fact that he left you pregnant and alone. You weren't, were you? Because I remember a man." Blaise's voice catches in the back of his throat. "I remember you crying over him, as he lay in front of a hearth--" He breaks off, trying to push back the hurt and fury that's welling up. He flattens his hands on the table, looks down at them. They're shaking, he realises, and that surprises him a bit. He flexes his fingers, tries to stop the trembling. He can't. 

His mother's silent for a long moment, and then she sighs. "I've lied a great deal about your father over the years, yes." She doesn't look at him. "And I was worried that you'd find out how he died. Of course I was." Her gaze flicks up towards Blaise's face. "I'm a mother, Blaise. Whatever you might think of me, I've always tried to protect you. To take care of you as best I could." Before he can protest she holds up a hand. "Perhaps I haven't always done it the right way or the proper way. But I love you, and you are _everything_ to me, Blaise Augustus." She draws in a slow breath. "You were named after your father's grandfather, you know. Augusto Zabini. Christopher adored him, and the moment we knew you were going to be a boy, he insisted on giving you his name."

Blaise just looks at her, his heart thudding softly. "I don't know anything about his family," he says after a moment. "I can't find anything out either. I've looked." His mouth twists. "Did you pay someone to redact that as well? Robards already told me his Auror files were edited because of you."

Olivia flinches. "I'm not that powerful, Blaise, whatever you might think." She rubs a thumb over a divot in the table that Blaise thinks might have been left by a stray dart from on one of the dartboards across the pub. "Your father's family hadn't been in London long; he and his father immigrated from Rome with Augusto when Christopher was quite small. That's all your father ever told me. He didn't care for his father, never spoke of him if he could help it."

"What about his mother?" Blaise asks, his curiosity piqued as much as he'd hate to admit it to Olivia. 

"She was never mentioned." Olivia shrugs. "I don't know if Christopher even knew her." She looks over at Blaise, her face weary. "I don't know anything more, other than Augusto had died by the time I met Christopher. Your grandfather...I only knew his name was Raphael. Christopher intimated he'd gone back to Rome, but I never really knew if that was true." She bites her lip, looks down at her hands. "Your father was a very good liar at times."

And he married in his weight class with that, Blaise thinks, but he knows better than to voice it aloud. There's a certain amount of insubordination Olivia will tolerate, but that would cross a line, even for Blaise. He turns his empty glass between his hands, the slick sides cool against his palms. "I saw how he died," Blaise says after a long moment. He can't look at his mother; his throat tightens. "In Thibodaux." He doesn't bother to explain; his mother doesn't ask. She twists her hands together instead, waiting. Blaise sighs. "You said you didn't know what hex killed him. But you did, didn't you?" His voice trembles, if only a bit. "You knew Jasper Durant threw a Resurrection Stone at him, and he caught it. You knew it killed him--"

"I did." Olivia's voice is terrible, soft and even, and Blaise's head jerks up, his gaze meets hers. His mother watches him, her face grim but determined. "I knew everything, because my father brought Christopher to me when it happened and told me everything they'd done. How they'd tried to create a Resurrection Stone, like bloody damned fools, and had failed--but not so much that my husband wasn't lying at my feet, the very life bleeding out of him the moment my father's stasis spell was lifted." She presses her lips together, looks away. Blaise is surprised to see a dampness beneath her eyes, then a tear rolling down her perfect cheek. He's only seen his mother cry once, when his stepfather Andy died.

Blaise sits silently, giving his mother the moment she needs, and then Olivia takes a ragged breath, brushes the tear away, and looks at him. 

"I tried to save him." Olivia straightens her shoulders. "I did everything I could. I went into the deepest Enochian spells our family grimoire has, and nothing worked. So I did the only thing I could, God help me." Her voice catches again, and she bites her lip, worrying it between her teeth. 

"What?" The word comes out raw and painful, torn from Blaise's throat. He doesn't know if he wants her to answer, doesn't know if this is something he needs to understand. 

His mother breathes out, closes her eyes for a moment. "There's a spell. It's one my father told me never to touch. But I could do it with the Resurrection Stone, even if it wasn't a complete Hallow. All I needed was a bit of Soul Grass, and I'd been studying it in my potionbrewing, so there was a dried hank of it on hand."

"Mother." Blaise looks at her, something deep and horrible seeping through him. "Mother, you didn't--"

"I knew he couldn't stay in the stasis spell forever," Olivia says, and she's close to tears again, Blaise can tell. "But I couldn't lose him. I needed time, and his soul was starting to fade, Blaise. I knew it was." She draws in a breath. It's more of a sob. "I had everything I needed, and I asked your father. I told him what I wanted to do, and he said yes--" She breaks off, presses her knuckles against her mouth. She closes her eyes, and Blaise sees her shoulders relax as she breathes out again. "Your grandfather took the blame. He claimed he'd done the spell because he knew you needed me. And, coward that I was, I let him." 

Blaise sits there, unable to move, unable to think. "You," he starts to say and then he looks away, overcome by all of this. He rubs his hands over his face, presses his fingers against his temples. The throb in his head is starting again. "You turned my father into a Dementor."

Olivia's silent, her head bent. 

"Tell me," Blaise says sharply, and she looks up at him. "No more lies. I need you to say it, Mother."

"I did." The words are a barest whisper. Olivia swallows; her face is grey. "I've been carrying it with me all these years. I thought I could save him. I thought we could find a way to stop the spell, that we could bring him back completely, but I wasn't good enough. I couldn't do it." She closes her eyes again; tears are seeping from the corners. 

Blaise can't feel anything. Anger. Pity. Fury. He's numb, oddly, calmly so, but he's also aware, as if from a distance, that breathing hurts, that his chest feels tight and painful. He looks at his mother, and he thinks perhaps he might hate her. Just a bit. Just for a moment. 

"Where is he?" he rasps out. "Did you put him in Azkaban--"

"No." Olivia's eyes fly open; she shakes her head fiercely. "I would never. Your grandfather smuggled him out of London. He took him to Crete."

"And you let him take the blame." Blaise wants another whisky. Needs one. He pushes his glass away. "You lied. And you left my father alone all these years--"

Olivia leans forward. "I didn't have a choice." Her eyes are bright, hot.

"You had _every_ choice," Blaise says, his voice rising again. He ignores the couple who stares at them. "You've never understood that, have you, Mother? You always have a choice. You could have let him die, instead of forcing him into a half-life because you weren't ready to let him go--"

"Christopher agreed," his mother says.

"Because he loved you." Blaise grips the edge of the table. He's angry now, and he's tired of this, tired of his mother's lies, of her defences. "He would have said anything for you and you know it. And you couldn't let him go because it was all about _you_ , and then you spent the next twenty-odd years lying to me about it all, letting me think he was someone who had just walked away from both of us. He loved us, Mother, and you…" Blaise trails off, his rage giving way to grief. His breath is unsteady, his heart hurts. "I just wanted to know my father, and you kept that from me all my life."

Olivia reaches out for him. "Blaise," she says, but he pushes her hand away. 

"Don't." Blaise stands up. "I can't right now. I need…" He doesn't know what he needs. "Give me some time," Blaise says, his head bent. "I can't talk to you for now. Please."

Olivia's quiet for a moment, and then she nods. "I love you," she murmurs. "I know you might not think it right now, but I do."

"I know you think you do." Blaise steps away from the table. He lets his hand rest on her shoulder for the briefest of moments. "I'll ring you later."

He leaves her at the table; he doesn't look back. He can't. 

Blaise walks through the streets of London almost as if he's on autopilot. He doesn't know where his feet are taking him, doesn't know where he's going. He passes pubs and restaurants, all filled with laughing people, the throngs spilling out onto the street, but he barely notices them. His mind is swirling, twisting in on itself, around and around until Blaise is certain he's half-mad with it all. 

And then he stops in front of an old, worn-down house not far from Charing Cross Road, only a few streets away from the Leaky. Blaise has only been here a few times over the years, and always with Draco. He stares up at the bright blue door, the weatherbeaten white of the painted window sills peeling. He doesn't know why he's here, what made him come to this address. 

Draco, he thinks, a bit wildly. Maybe Draco's leading him. It's ridiculous. Blaise knows that. But he finds himself climbing the crumbling steps, lifting the heavy brass doorknocker. It falls against the wood with a loud thud; Blaise raises it again and lets it slide from his fingers. 

When the door opens with a rough creak, Blaise just looks up and asks, simply, "Can we talk?"

Bertie Aubrey stares back at him in surprise. "What are you doing here, lad?" he asks, and his gaze slides past Blaise to the empty road behind him. 

"It's just me." Blaise wonders if he should ring Jake, if he should tell him where he is. His mobile's still in his pocket. But he doesn't. He can't. He just looks at Bertie, hoping he won't be turned away. "I just…" He stops, and he doesn't know what to say. He swallows, his hands pushed deep into his pockets. "Please?" He looks up at Bertie. "It's about my dad."

Bertie inhales sharply. "Right." He hesitates, then nods, holding the door open wider. He's in pyjama bottoms and a half-buttoned shirt; Blaise can see a bit of grey hair on his chest. His hair is rumpled, as if Blaise had caught him napping. "Come on then," he says, with one last, quick glance towards the pavement. "I'll put the kettle on the hob."

"I'd rather have whisky." Blaise steps into the shadowed hallway. A lamp burns bright from a room to his right, warm and cosy. "If you don't mind."

"Fuck if you don't look like you need it." Bertie eyes him for a moment. "I've a glass you might try." He starts off down the hall, then looks back behind him. "Well, hop to it, lad. It won't drink itself, after all."

Blaise closes the door behind him and breathes out, uncertain and unsteady. Whatever Bertie tells him, it'll be all right, Blaise thinks. But he has to know. Has to hear from someone who'd been an Auror with Christopher Zabini. Who'd known him, who'd kept his secrets, whatever they might have been.

He follows Bertie down the hall, suddenly feeling as if the world might be coming rightside up again. 

For the moment at least.

***

Rays of morning sunlight spill in through the large window of the hospital ward, gilding the deep green leaves of the small potted hyacinth on the sill, the spicy-sweet scent of its blue flowers wafting towards Althea's bed. She blinks against the brightness of the sun, turning her head away with a wince, her hair catching on the pillow. Her Healers say it's a sign of progress that she's begun to tolerate natural light now, at least for a bit each day. Still, they might need to lower the blind soon as the angle of the sun changes; Althea can feel a subtle pressure building at the base of her skull. Merlin, but she hopes they won't need to bind her eyes and cast a Nox again today. It's awful when they do; she's terrified by the loss of her sight, even if it does dull the pain. Maybe the potions they're dosing her with this morning will keep the monstrous headaches at bay.

Althea presses a thin hand to the back of her head gingerly. It's strange to feel the lack of her usual thick braids; they'd shaved part of her head when she'd been brought in. Her hair's short now, and it'd given her a start the first time she'd seen it in the mirror Pansy had handed her. Pansy'd done what she could to trim it up, but it's still shaggy and awful, Althea thinks, although it does make her cheekbones look sharper and higher.

Really, she's lucky to be alive, Althea thinks, as her fingers skid hesitantly across the bandage still covering the part of her skull that had caved in when it'd struck the edge of the shelves in the Robichau crypt. The Healers had worked hard to stitch her back together the past fortnight, and Althea's grateful for that, but she's also bored and restless now that she's feeling better. The last thing she wants is to be confined to the ward, allowed only to go for a shuffling walk with one of the mediwitches by her side just in case anything happens. Which it all too often does, to Althea's dismay. Her balance isn't what it once was, and, even though she's been trying to hide them as best she can, the tremors in her hand haven't stopped yet. 

At least for now she's dressed--well, as much as she ever is in St Mungo's--and fully ready to be up after another morning nap, thanks to the drowsiness the potions tend to induce. Alice, the night mediwitch, had woken her at half six, just before she'd gone off shift, and helped Althea into a pair of joggers and an old, soft Ravenclaw Quidditch shirt Pansy had brought over from Althea's flat a few days ago. An hour later, she'd been able to keep down a small breakfast--Merlin, she's so grateful to be off of the soft food diet they've had her on. She'd even managed a piece of buttered toast today, and it had tasted like bloody ambrosia after the mush she's endured. Now she's just been dozing about, trying to gather her strength for the day. And honestly, there's not much reason to be awake--it's not as though she's allowed anywhere near work. Mickelson, her favourite of her Healers, had bluntly vetoed that yesterday when Althea'd asked about going back to the Ministry. He's refusing to give estimates right now for when she can return--and none of the other Healers will undermine him, she's found. She sighs and frowns up at the white plaster ceiling above her. The desire to know what's happened in the two weeks she's been out is being to prickle like an itch under her skin. No one will tell her anything when they stop by to visit--not even Pansy. Although Althea's fairly certain she smelled whisky on the guv's breath the other day. Not that she can blame him, the poor bastard. The one thing she does know is that Malfoy didn't come back with them. Zabini had let that slip when he and Durant had brought the hyacinth, along with a giant bag of grapes the Healers hadn't let her touch. 

"Up now, are you, pet?" Her father's sitting in the chair by the window, leafing through the morning's _Prophet_. No one else is in ward; the other beds are all empty. They have been the entire time Althea's been here, as far as she knows. She's not certain why, although she supposes it has something to do with the fact that they've tucked her away in a ward usually reserved for Unspeakables. Alice had told her that during one of their late night conversations. 

"Have been for a bit," Althea says, even though she's really just been dozing. She yawns, though, partially to fight back the potions' sleepiness and partially for show. She shifts on the bed, her body sore. She wants to be up and running again, doing some sparring in the Auror training centre before coming into work. "Why did you sleep in the chair again?"

Her father's eyes are bright, and he lowers his paper, smiling at her. "Didn't want to be too much of a nuisance. Pansy's been a gracious host, letting me kip in her spare room and use her shower, but I don't want to take advantage by staying too many nights in a row."

"She wouldn't mind, you know that." A warmth spreads through Althea's chest at the thought of Pansy's care of her father. "She's said you can stay as often as you like." Pansy's made that much clear every time she's come by, which has been almost every day. Althea's gaze slides towards the ward doors. She wonders if Pansy'll stop by today.

"She has," Mitchell agrees. "But the poor lass needs some time for herself as well. She's been awfully good to us, and I'm sure she's got other worries of her own too."

Althea wonders what her father's picked up on. Malfoy, she suspects. Pansy won't talk about that; the few times Althea's asked, Pansy's face has just gone still and brittle before she's smiled that thin, sharp smile that doesn't reach her eyes, patted Althea's arm and told her Granger had everything under control on that end. Rubbish, Althea thinks. Even with her mind working more sluggishly than usual, she knows damned well what Malfoy being caught by MACUSA will mean. Oudepoort at the least. Possibly worse, if they want to get information from him. Althea's stomach twists. Funny to think that she would be so worried about Malfoy of all people. A few months ago she would have laughed at the idea, would have said he deserved this. Now everything's changed. Malfoy's her friend, in his own prickly way, and she wants him back, safe and sound. 

And she's been part of Seven-Four-Alpha long enough to know that Pansy's more fragile than she acts, and the more brusque and matter-of-fact she is, the more fear she's hiding. Whatever's going on is worrying her a hell of a lot; Althea can feel that even if Pansy's not talking about any of it. No need for her to be a Legilimens to know that. Pansy radiates her anxiety, whether or not she thinks she does. It just makes Althea more anxious to be done with the Healers and back to the incident room. She wants to help her team, wants to figure out what their next steps should be.

Besides, Althea's caught glimpses of the headlines on the _Prophet_ s her father's been reading. Marchbanks and Hawkworth are moving forward with the Registry, and the _Prophet_ 's come out swinging against Shacklebolt's government. None of that's good, she knows, and here she is, hidden away in the depths of St Mungo's, unable to do a bloody damned thing to help any of them.

To help Pansy.

Althea also knows she owes Pansy a hell of a lot for her swift action when they'd arrived back through the portal, landing in the middle of the Department of Mysteries. The Healers have said that Althea's recovered as well as she has because Pansy managed to get her directly into the Unspeakable ward from Saul Croaker's office. Althea doesn't remember much of it--if she tries, she can recall a little after the horrors of Thibodaux, a temperature shift, maybe Pansy yelling at Croaker, but she was barely conscious then. And that was before the medical coma they put her in to stop the damage from the intracranial bleeding.

Mitchell clears his throat, and Althea glances over at him. He's watching her, a speculative look on his face. "She's a good lass, you know." At Althea's frown, he clarifies. "Pansy. Besides, she cares for you. You could do worse."

Althea shakes her head, regretting it immediately when she feels a sharp pain throb through her skull. Her hand flies up to massage her neck, although she's having trouble with her grip. Sometimes her fingers seem to have a mind of their own. She lets her hand slide away. "It's not like that, Dad. She has someone already."

"Does she, now?" Mitchell's keenness, which Althea had missed so during his bouts of drinking, is unnerving now that it's focused on her personal life. "I'm not sure you're right."

"Yes, I am." Althea smoothes the blanket across her knees. "I've already told you about Tony."

"Well, then." There's a rustle of papers as Mitchell turns a page in the _Prophet_ , pretending to be absorbed. "He's certainly not in the picture right now, is he?"

Oh, for Circe's sake, Althea thinks, a bit more irritable than she'd like to admit. She hates it when her father does this, tries to turn his investigative skills on her. And yet, there's a part of her that's missed this, that remembers this as part of her adolescence, her father's pointed probing into things Althea'd rather keep private.

"Could you close the blinds?" Althea asks. "I think I have a headache starting." It's not that bad yet, but she desperately wants to change the subject. Still, just in case the discomfort blossoms into something more painful, she pushes the button next to her bed for a dose of the potions levitating from a bag beside the bed, her hand shaking as she tries to complete the task. It doesn't work. Althea takes a deep breath, focuses, and tries again. This time she is successful, sending the bright purple liquid through the plastic tube into the knobbly back of her trembling hand. She sinks back against the pillows with a sigh of relief.

"As milady commands." Her father sets the paper aside, then stands up and lowers the blind--manual, thank goodness, and not spell-based. It had required special permissions from Saul Croaker himself to allow her father at St Mungos. Althea suspects Pansy'd had a hand in that too.

The ward door opens, and Cyrus, the mediwizard who checks Althea's potions comes in. "Morning, lovely," he says, his voice a bit too cheery for Althea's liking. He has another bag in his hand, this one filled with an almost opaque blue potion. Althea hates this one; even taken intravenously it somehow leaves a metallic taste in the back of her mouth. "Saw you just knocked back a bit more of your pain mix." His gaze flicks towards Mitchell settling the blinds. "Getting a bit of a headache, are we?"

"Maybe the start of one," Althea lies. She watches as Cyrus sets a levitation charm on the bag, then picks up one of the free tubes draped over the top of the other bag and attaches it. A flick of his wand and the new potion starts dripping through, running its way to Althea's taped-up hand. 

Cyrus gives her a long look. "Can't have that today, given that you've a visitor signing in with the ward sister."

Althea sits up, a bit too eagerly. "Who?" Anyone at this point would be lovely; Althea loves her father, but there's only so many times he can read her bits and pieces he considers appropriate from the _Prophet_ before she wants to crawl out of bed and run for the door.

"Who do you think?" Cyrus gives her a small smile. "Short, dark-haired, likes to come by at all hours of the day regardless of visitor's hours?"

Althea's heart leaps. That can only be one person, she thinks. Just the one she's been hoping to see. 

And sure enough, Pansy comes in alongside one of the other mediwitches, a bustle of colour and energy. She's wearing pink today, a close-fitting cardigan that looks to be cashmere over a grey sheath dress. Her small, elegant feet are in strappy sandals, and Althea supposes she's enjoying the last bits of summer. "Hello! How are my favourite Whitakers today?" Her voice is pitched low, and a thrill surges through Althea when she hears it. Althea scolds herself inwardly. She's got to get this pash under control.

"Told you," Cyrus murmurs, and he gives Althea's shoulder a gentle squeeze before stepping back.

"We're only better for your presence," Mitchell says courteously, and he smiles as Pansy's laugh echoes in the quiet ward.

"Morning." Althea wishes she could laugh as well, but, if she's honest, Pansy leaves her tongue-tied more often than not lately, and it's not the head injury. "Shouldn't you be at the office?"

Pansy pauses, a frown on her face as she studies Althea, her brow furrowed. Her gaze flicks towards Mitchell, and he shrugs ever so slightly. "But, remember? It's Saturday, darling," Pansy says, her voice gentle, then she gives Althea a warm smile, that still has a bit of a wanness to it. "I'm free as a lark!" There's something she's not saying; Althea can hear it in the depths of her voice. But she knows better than to push. If Pansy wants to talk about it, she will. 

"She's all yours, Anna," Cyrus says to the mediwitch. "Just took a pain potion, and I've started her on a mixture forty-five for this morning. Mickelson wants to have her on a three-twenty-one by this evening when he does rounds." 

Anna nods and notes that down on the pad of parchment she's carrying. Her quill is a bright turquoise with purple dots along the shaft, and when she's done scrawling her note, she tucks it up in her twist of ginger curls. "Right then. Let me at you, Thea. Let's test some of those reflexes today, shall we, love?" She steps in to fuss over Althea. 

Pansy and Mitchell move over to the side, the two of their heads bent together. Her father's holding the _Prophet_ in one hand, folded to a specific page, and asking Pansy something in a low voice that Althea can't quite hear. She thinks it's about the Death Eater Registry, but she's not sure. They haven't been talking with her about anything serious yet, and it's beginning to drive her bloody mental. Conversations tire her out after a while, true, but it's not like she's lost the whole of her ability to think.

"Does it hurt when you close your eyes?" Anna asks. She takes out her wand and shines a light in the corner of Althea's vision for the briefest moment, leaning in to study Althea's reaction.

"Not particularly." Althea's head is settling, thanks to the potion. "In fact, it feels a bit better."

"Well, let's see if we can keep you on just one dose of pain potion for a bit, yeah?" Anna smiles at her. "You're looking well to me right now, but I'll check on you in a little bit, and make sure that it's not worse. Ring the bell if anything else happens before your next dose--Cyrus will be back in two hours."

Althea nods her head, wincing only slightly. Still, Anna catches it and gives her a long look. "I'm fine," Althea says. "Just sudden movements, you know?"

"No dancing about the ward for you then," Anna says with a wink, and as she bustles out of the door, Althea settles back against her cushions. The iron bands around her head are easing. Pansy and Mitchell come back to the bedside and sit, her dad in the chair and Pansy at the foot of the bed.

"So what were the two of you talking about?" Althea eyes them both in turn.

"Pansy's been explaining things about the today's paper to me," Mitchell says, thumping the sheets of the _Prophet_ for emphasis. "It is a damn interesting read, although I've the sense that the bloody _Daily Mail_ is more scrupulous about its reporting." His eyes narrow. "And that's saying something."

Althea's all too aware of her father's opinion of the _Mail;_ at best, he considers it a blight to proper journalistic integrity. When he's tied a few on, he calls it a rag not worthy for a rat to shit on. Among other far more scatalogical things.

Pansy snorts. "The _Mail_ 's far less gossipy, honestly." She glances over at Althea. "I've been trying to explain Rita Skeeter and her journo ethics to your father."

"Ethics, my arse," Mitchell murmurs, giving the _Prophet_ a good, annoyed shake. 

Althea looks between them. "So you wouldn't have been talking about Marchbanks and the legislation Shacklebolt is trying to block?" She gets the words out slowly. "Or maybe the guv. Or Malfoy." She stops, not able to go on past the pained expression on Pansy's face. Whatever's happened since she's been in hospital, it's very bad indeed. Althea sighs and looks away. She pleats her blanket between her fingertips. "I know Malfoy didn't come back with us," she says softly. She meets Pansy's gaze. "Zabini told me that much."

"He wasn't supposed to," Pansy says, but she doesn't look away.

Mitchell reaches over and touches Althea's hand. "We have talked a bit about all of that. I haven't heard the whole story yet about your team, though. Pansy's been waiting until you were better."

Pansy's face is grim, pale. Still, Althea presses on. "I'm better now," she says, doing her best to keep her voice even. "Can you please tell me?" She reaches out her other hand, trembling ever so faintly, and Pansy clasps it for a moment, her fingers warm and firm around Althea's, then she lets go. Althea knows both her father and Pansy are aware of her tremors; neither of them say anything about them. Pansy just brushes her knuckles against the back of Althea's hand, a featherlight touch before she draws away, sits in the chair beside Althea's bed. Mitchell steps away, his arms folded across his chest. He nods at Pansy.

"All right. Fine." Pansy sighs then looks over at Althea and away again. She takes a breath, her shoulder set. "You're right. Draco didn't come back with us. He pushed the guv through the portal instead." She stops, her gaze sliding back to Althea. "Do you remember the portal?"

"Vaguely." Althea closes her eyes for a moment. A wash of cold and fear goes over her; she can almost remember something blue surrounding her, the steady beat of someone's heart against her ear. And pain. So much pain. She has the strength for this, she tells herself. Her eyes flutter open; she looks at Pansy, who's watching her in return, her teeth biting down on her lip. "Where's he now?" She knows the answer to this. There's only one place that he can be, if he didn't come through with the rest of the team.

Pansy presses her fist to her mouth and exhales, a bit unevenly. "We're not sure." Her voice is a bit thin, a bit reedy. "Granger and half the Ministry have been trying to locate him and bring him home on diplomatic grounds, but the new MACUSA brass have him hidden away." Her hand drops; her lips are a thin line. "No one will admit to that, of course. He's just not in their system." 

Althea's stomach is a bit queasy. It's about what she expected, to be honest. And none of it good, although she does have faith in Malfoy's ability to survive almost anything. She hopes it's not as grim as Pansy fears, that he's safe somewhere. "And the guv?" She's half-afraid to ask. "I assume he's not taking that well."

"Oh, for the most part he's locked himself away in Grimmauld with an ocean of whisky and very little else except that ill-tempered house elf of his." Pansy's perfectly groomed eyebrows draw together. "Granger says he's barely even speaking to her or Weasley, much less any of us. Most days he comes to work, but usually to shout at Robards and Shacklebolt for not doing anything. To be honest, they're trying. I think it's worse for the guv because his hands are tied. He can't do anything, you know? If he tries to go back--if any of us do--they'll arrest us on sight, and Shacklebolt's forbidden us to even think about trying." Pansy pauses, looks over at Althea. "He's put us on a tight leash. The Unspeakables are tracking our wand signatures and magical traces. They'll know if we leave the country."

Althea's breath catches. "They almost never do that."

Pansy's smile is faint. "They almost never have to deal with an angry Harry Potter, do they?" she asks quietly. "I think that's the worst of it for the guv. He's had his wings clipped, and he doesn't know what to do now." She shakes her head. "None of us do."

That's the hell of it, isn't it, Althea thinks. God only knows what MACUSA's doing with Malfoy, and it's the not knowing that's the worst. "He must be half out of his mind," she murmurs.

"Every so often he comes out of his office, checks on us, sees how we're doing, but Merlin, he looks like shit when he does." Pansy rubs her hand over her face and sits back. She looks tired, Althea thinks. "And then there's the little matter of him randomly setting things on fire again." She crosses her arms, sighs again. "It's worse when he's been drinking. And I know he's keeping a bottle of firewhisky in his desk drawer. I haven't said anything about it. Yet."

"He'll be trying to drink away the pain." Mitchell's voice is thoughtful, and Althea glances over at him. Her father looks sad; he shakes his head. "I know what that's like. I'd be happy to talk to him if you think it would help."

Pansy reaches over, touches Mitchell's arm lightly. "Thank you. It might eventually, but I'm not sure he's there yet. As far as I can tell, Potter's not letting anyone in. Not even his best friends, much less his team." 

"Yeah." Mitchell wipes a hand over his face. "It's tough to lose someone. He needs to be angry. But that won't bring them back." He looks over the window, takes a deep breath, and Althea knows he's thinking of her mother. Of everything they've both lost thanks to Aldric sodding Yaxley. 

Althea's head is hurting. She closes her eyes. It's all too much, she thinks. She's no idea how much more any of them can bear.

"We've tired you out," Pansy says softly. "Shall I ring for the mediwitch?"

"No," Althea says, her voice a murmur. "Just let me rest for a moment." She reaches out again, takes Pansy's hand. "Stay?"

Pansy's fingers curl around hers. "As long as you need me to."

Althea barely notices when she dozes off to the soft sounds of her father and Pansy whispering, this time about the crossword puzzle. But Pansy's hand is still warm against Althea's, her thumb tracing small circles against Althea's knuckles.

And, heartsore, worried, Althea drifts back into sleep.

***

Jake cups his hands around a Starbucks coffee, a grande filter brew that's black and heavily sweetened, as he walks through the streets of Mayfair. It takes like shit, but he needs the caffeine and the sugar rush right now. He didn't sleep much last night; he'd waited up for Blaise to come home, and it'd been half two before the door to the flat had opened and Blaise had staggered back through, half-drunk and a bit belligerent.

They'd argued--not for the first time these past two weeks--Blaise furious this time with Jake for sending his mother to the pub. And Jake knows that had been a risky move, but Olivia Zabini had looked so drawn and so tired that he hadn't been able to lie to her. They'd needed to talk, mother and son, he'd thought, and he suspects from Blaise's anger that he'd been right, even if it hadn't gone well. 

Not that Jake knows what it was about. Or where the hell Blaise went afterwards. Blaise wouldn't tell him, and Jake didn't press the matter. He knows Blaise is worried about Malfoy. They all are. Hell, Harry's been looking like a goddamn corpse every time Jake sees him, which hasn't been a hell of a lot lately. Harry's been keeping out of everyone's way these past few days, and that worries Jake even more. The few times he's tried to go over to Grimmauld, he's been rebuffed, either by Kreacher or Harry himself. Still, Jake had managed to leave a curry the last time, sitting on the hearth in its takeaway box, and he hopes Harry managed to get at least a little bit down him. Jake suspects Harry's been drinking most of his meals rather than eating them, judging by how his clothes are hanging off him while, at the same time, his face is bloated from too much whisky. 

They're boxing them all in, Jake thinks. All of Seven-Four-Alpha. He knows why. Robards and Croaker are worried they're going to go rogue, try to find Malfoy and break him out. And they're not wrong. Given half a chance, the whole fucking team would. 

And Jake would be by their side, the MACUSA warrant for his arrest be damned. 

He crosses the road against the light, jogging over the asphalt just before a black taxi whizzes by with a blare of its horn. There's a fair amount of traffic for a Saturday afternoon, but he supposes that's London for you. Jake wonders if Blaise is awake yet. He'd left him curled up in bed, with a glass of water and some paracetamol from Boots on the nightstand. After they'd argued in the wee hours of the morning, Blaise had pressed Jake against the bedroom door and kissed him, rough and angry, and Jake hadn't cared so much about the sour whiff of whisky on Blaise's breath, not when Blaise had reached for Jake's joggers and pushed them down, his hand finding Jake's prick, already half-hard. Jake had let Blaise fuck him, hard and fast, because he'd known that's what Blaise needed right then, to bury himself in someone, to forget whatever it was that he'd tried to drink out of himself. 

Afterwards, Jake had wrapped his body around Blaise's and held him, stroking Blaise's shaking back until Blaise finally gave in to sleep. Jake had been up for a hell of a while later, long enough to get the text just before dawn summoning here to Grosvenor Square. 

The trees are leafy and green, a shadowed canopy across the grassy park, surrounded on three sides by tall, red brick Georgian terraces. On the fourth sits the white stone and glass facade of the U.S. embassy, a hulking building at Number 24 that takes up most of the west end of the square itself. Jake sees it through the branches as he walks down the narrow paved path crossing from one side of the park to the other, and a faint frisson of fear goes through him. There are Aurors in there, he knows. Hell, he'd once been stationed inside that building for three months, back before he'd gone to Luxembourg and met Harry. Jake doesn't think MACUSA will snatch him from London, not given his current protected status by the British magical government, but better safe than sorry. He shifts his coffee from one hand to the other, making sure he can reach his wand quickly if he needs to. He's not an idiot; he'd wondered if this was a set-up the moment the text had come through. But he's mostly certain it's not. 

Then again, maybe Jake's just a damn fool. 

He walks up to a bench, sits down. "Hello, Tom," he says, taking a sip of his lukewarm coffee, and the man at the end of the bench folds his copy of the _Telegraph_ and sets it aside, looking over at Jake with a grim smile.

"Jake." Tom Graves is as casual as Jake has ever seen him, dark hair perfectly combed back, dressed in a green polo and khakis, looking quintessentially American. He stands out like a sore thumb here, Jake thinks, but he suspects Graves takes pleasure in that fact. He always was a contrary son of a bitch. "Glad you came."

"You were a little insistent." Jake leans against the wooden-slatted back of the bench, his knees spread wide. He's in jeans and an untucked button-down, the sleeves rolled up nearly to his elbows. It's warm for the start of September, but a faint breeze ruffles the tree branches above them. He looks over at Graves. "How's London treating you and Mel?"

Graves shrugs. "Shacklebolt's been decent. Fast-tracked our request for asylum, so our paperwork just came through yesterday. Also made certain we could get Philip into Hogwarts this year, since Ilvermorny wasn't an option. Mel could have kept him home with her, but we wanted the kids to keep up with their studies."

"The girls?" Jake asks, more out of politeness than anything. "They're not old enough for Hogwarts, are they?"

"Primary school." Graves picks up the paper again, folds it in his hands. It's a nervous habit of his, Jake knows, one that he only indulges when he's distracted. "A No-Maj one for now. Mel wants to make sure they've a good grounding in math and science before they start magical training." He looks over at Jake. "You? I'm guessing the Ministry wants to keep you safe."

Jake shrugs. "Mostly wants to keep me out of Aldric Yaxley's hands, so I guess that's about the same." He turns his coffee cup in his hands, watches a mother walk through the park with her two young sons, one of whom keeps scampering off to chase a rabbit that scampers beneath one of the low hedges that line the street. "I'm good for now." He doesn't mention his worries about money or a job. Graves had told him the danger he was putting himself in before he'd gone to Thibodaux. Jake's lost everything because he chose to. 

Still, Graves gives him a sharp look. "If Saul Croaker doesn't bring you on as an Unspeakable, he's a damn idiot."

"Maybe he is." Jake lifts his coffee cup, grimaces as he takes another sip. The Brits are superior in tea, he thinks, but not coffee. He glances at Graves. "But I'm pretty sure you didn't bring me here to ask me how I am." They've never been close enough for that level of concern. If Tom Graves wants to meet, then he wants something specific from Jake, and Jake sure as fuck wants to know what that is.

He sits silently, waiting. 

Graves looks out over the park, towards the windows of the embassy, glittering in the early afternoon sunlight. "Did you know," he says after a moment, "that there has been an American diplomatic presence in this square since 1785? John Adams was the first one here. Had a house just down past this park on Brook Street. It's been the beating heart of America in London--Maj and No-Maj--ever since." He glances over at Jake. "Seemed fitting that I ask you to come here today."

Jake rests his coffee between his thighs. He doesn't know what to say. Traffic rumbles behind them, going up Grosvenor Street. He wonders if Blaise has rolled out of bed yet, if he's curious where Jake is. If he even cares this morning. Jake sighs and looks at Graves. "What do you want from me, Tom?"

"We have to do something," Graves says, his voice low, urgent. He turns towards Jake, his arm resting on the back of the bench, his face set, almost bleak. "Aldric Yaxley has to be stopped."

"The Ministry's trying--" Jake starts to say but Graves is already shaking his head. 

"They'll go diplomatic routes," Graves says. "They have to. What I'm asking you is something entirely different." He shifts closer, bends his head to Jake's. "We have to bring Samuel Quahog's government down."

Jake stills, breathes out. "Tom, you're asking--"

"I know what I'm asking." The look Graves gives him is sober. "But, like our forefathers said, sometimes 'in the course of human events it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another…'" He trails off, the words of the Declaration of Independence hanging between them. "Aldric Yaxley is going to destroy our country, Jake. And then I'm pretty damn certain he's going to try to destroy this one. Bend them both to his will. To whatever mad vision of tyranny he ascribes to. He already owns our government. If you don't think he has people in play here too…" Graves holds up his hands. "We have to stop him."

"How?" Just having this conversation is crazy. Jake knows that. But he also knows that Graves isn't wrong. Aldric Yaxley can't be allowed to continue. And neither can Quahog. Not now that the cup is gone, not now that Rodolphus Lestrange has the ability to create Hallows, to control Death himself. 

Jake failed in what he was supposed to do. He walked right into Lestrange's trap, played his hand all goddamn wrong. And now not only is he paying for that, but Seven-Four-Alpha is as well. 

And then there's Malfoy. Jake knows Wilkinson wouldn't have taken him to Oudepoort. Not yet. He's offshore somewhere. Maybe Gitmo. Maybe one of the other camps. They'll keep him for as long as they want; Wilkinson will invoke homeland security to make certain of that. And they'll torture him. Try to break his mind, to bend his will to theirs, to destroy him until he's a fragile shell of the man he once was. 

He wouldn't have been there to be caught if it weren't for Jake. And Jake damn well knows he owes it to Malfoy to do anything, _everything_ he can to get him home again. Back to his friends. Back to his family. Back to Harry. 

Graves looks away, his gaze drifting towards the embassy. "I haven't quite figured the hows out yet," he says. "But I know if anyone can bring down MACUSA, it's you and me, kid." He glances back at Jake, his mouth quirking up on one side. "So what do you say? Feel up for a bit of treason?"

"They'll kill us if we're caught." Jake gives him an even look. "You've got Mel and the kids to worry about--"

"Mel's behind this a hundred percent." Graves shrugs, rubs his palm over his chin. It's stubbled, almost as if he hasn't used a shaving charm today. It's not like him, Jake thinks, and he wonders how difficult these past few weeks have been for Graves and his family, leaving behind everything they had in New York, overnight. Jake hadn't expected it of him. Not really. "We've talked about it, the two of us. She's on board."

"Even if it works," Jake says slowly, "we've no guarantee we'll be able to go home. You could end up exiled--"

Graves just watches him. "London's a nice enough city," he says. "Not as great as New York, sure, and the pizza sucks, but I wouldn't say the kids will suffer." He pauses, looks out across the park, then adds, "Except for the pizza bit. Goddamn, I'm going to miss Di Fara's pies."

Jake breathes out. He leans forward, his elbows on his knees, studying the ground. There's a smashed acorn beneath his shoe; he moves his foot, grinds the fragments into the soil with his heel. "Jesus," he murmurs. "This is a big ask, Tom."

"Treason usually is." Graves' voice is steady, calm. He's thought about this, Jake realises. "But it's our duty." He rests a hand on Jake's back. It's warm. Almost comforting. "You love MACUSA, probably as much as I do. But the part of it we loved? It's disappearing. Aldric Yaxley and those jackasses he's mobilised are destroying it. They have been for years, I'd say, and if we don't want it gone forever…" Graves moves his hand, holds it palm up, before snapping his fingers. "Mel and I can't do this alone."

Jake nods. He doesn't know what else to do.

Graves stands up. "Think about it. If you're in, you know how to text me." He touches Jake's shoulder. "Some moments call for strong men, Jake Durant. I think you're one of them."

And then he's walking away, stopping only to throw the _Telegraph_ in the nearest trash bin. Jake watches him, his thoughts in turmoil. He doesn't know if he's brave enough to do this. He doesn't know if he wants to. He's already given up so much. His family. His brother. 

Maybe even his lover. 

Jake exhales, his shoulders tight, aching. 

His phone vibrates in his pocket. He digs it out, opens it up without looking at the number. "Durant," he says. 

"You left me alone." Blaise sounds petulant. Sleepy. 

Jake leans back against the bench. "I thought you needed to rest, and I wanted a walk." He hesitates at the lie, then says, "Are you all right?"

There's a long silence. 

"Blaise." Jake wants him to talk, wants Blaise to tell him what's happened. What's upset him. 

"Just come home," Blaise says after a moment, and his voice cracks over the phone line. "I need you."

That's all Jake needs to hear. "Five minutes," he promises, and when Blaise hangs up, Jake closes his phone slowly.

He sits quietly, his gaze fixed on the embassy in front of him, his heart thudding in his chest, thinking about what Tom Graves said. But Jake knows what he's going to do. What he _has_ to do. 

A flip of his phone open, and he's texting, his thumb moving over the number pad quickly. _I'm in._ He hesitates, closes his eyes. 

Jake hits send.

He catches a glimpse of the stars and stripes unfurling in the breeze, red and white and blue through the bright green tree leaves. He'd fought for that flag with the Hit Wizards. He touches his bicep, his fingers skimming the cotton of his shirt, just over the faded tattoo that's still there, the winged horse with the lightning bolt in its mouth, _Atlanta 157_ just beneath it. He'd had friends who'd died for their country, and now Jake was going to bring it down. To destroy it. 

Not because he wants to, but because he has no other choice. 

"I'm sorry," Jake whispers, his voice cracking as he does, and to whom, he's not certain. But he stands, his gaze still fixed on the flag. "I'm so goddamn sorry." 

He turns around and walks away.

***

According to the clock on the mantel, it's only just gone eight in the evening, but Harry's been half-pissed for hours, maybe longer even, he suspects. He lies on the sofa, a cushion beneath his neck, a glass of Ogden's in his hand. He stares up at the ceiling, watching a spider cross the moulding. His head feels fuzzy. Empty. His body's loose, his limbs heavy and long, stretched out across the tufted leather. It's Saturday, or so Kreacher's told him, but that doesn't mean much to Harry. He's not even certain he went to work yesterday, if he's honest. All he remembers is pacing through the hallways of Grimmauld, his feet bare against the dusty floors, his shirt unbuttoned, hair unkempt, a bottle of firewhisky in his hand. Time blends together, each day as featureless as the last, each moment a ragged, painful breath. Harry's trying to be as sober as he can during work hours, especially after Gawain had pulled him aside a few days back and reamed him a new one after he'd set Kingsley's office ablaze, but, well, it turns out he can't be entirely sober all the time these days. Not after they'd told him they can't track down Draco, that MACUSA's denying any culpability in arresting him. Hermione can't even do anything, and if she can't, Harry's fully aware no one else at the Ministry will be able to either. And now that he's confined to England, not even allowed past the boundary to Wales or Scotland, there's not a goddamned way Harry can help Draco.

And so Harry drinks. 

He hadn't meant to. Not at first. He'd tried everything he could the days after their return. He'd screamed; he'd shouted; he'd shown up at the fucking MACUSA embassy. He'd even firecalled everyone in Luxembourg he could think of. 

But MACUSA held firm in its refusal to confirm that it held Draco. Which can only mean they have him in one of those prisons they aren't supposed to have, the ones that the ICW has censored them for, even if the fucking bastards won't move against Quahog and his government. That's exactly what Aldric Yaxley wants; Harry's sure of that. 

The nightmares came first, before the whisky. Dreams of Draco being hurt, beaten, his body pushed to its limits. And for what fucking reason? Even Harry knows they won't break him. If Voldemort hadn't, Yaxley won't be able to. Besides, torture never gets proper information. There's been study after study done on those lines, from Muggles and wizards alike. So whatever MACUSA or Yaxley or _whomever_ is doing to Draco, it's because the sick fuckers _like_ it, Harry thinks. 

On the second night of nightmares, Harry'd taken a dose of dreamless sleep. He'd still woken up, screaming, his whole body shaking with an imagined pain. 

He'd opened up the bottle of firewhisky the fourth night, trying to drink himself into not dreaming. It'd worked, and one nightcap had turned into twenty. Now Harry drinks because he can't bear the memory of the dreams and their pain, can't bear the silence of Grimmauld, can't bear its emptiness, its coldness, its shadowed grief that only weighs more heavily on Harry, suffocating him in his own anguish. And now he wakes up and he drinks because he's overwhelmed by the thought of facing another day helpless, unable to push through the diplomatic lies and bureaucratic red tape that are keeping Draco hidden away Merlin only knows where. He keeps a bottle hidden in his office, locked in the bottom drawer of his desk because he has to calm himself after meetings, numb the anger that's building up until it lashes out, setting whatever's in its path aflame. 

At first, it was all rage. Harry'd nearly set several senior officials' offices ablaze--Croaker's and Gawain's--before he lost it in Kingsley's office and caused an evacuation of the building. He hasn't been able to control his magic since, and if he's honest, he's not really trying. He's enjoying frightening them, making them afraid of him. He knows it's foolish. Draco would shout at him if he were here with him and then take Harry to bed and fuck him until Harry was limp, sated, the anger settling, easing with his body's release. And Harry would lie there afterwards, wrapped around Draco, the fight going out of him.

Harry has to get Draco back. 

It's harder and harder to control himself now. He can feel it surging in his blood, and when he's alone, he takes off his shirt, and stares down at the ink that twists across his arm, the words that still churn across his skin in Latin and Greek, French and German and other languages Harry doesn't recognise, words of power and protection, ancient words that thrum through Harry, coil around his magic, make it stronger, more powerful than it's ever been before. 

Harry's terrified by the way they make him feel. By the fact that with a snap of his fingers, still half-pissed and barely focussed, he can Summon a bottle from across the room, wandless. He hardly uses it now; for the past two days his wand's lain untouched, half-rolled beneath one of the sofas in the library where he'd kicked it. Harry's magic roils and wells up inside of him, and he drinks again to keep it pushed down, to hide it, to keep others from noticing how strong he is. Not even Hermione's seen the marks on his arm; Harry can't tell her. Won't tell her. He keeps his sleeves rolled down, the cuffs tightly buttoned, and he knows now how Draco felt before, how afraid he'd been of the others seeing his Mark, judging him for it. 

The ink burns sometimes, hot and sharp, like a thousand tiny needles pressing into his flesh, forcing Harry to remember it's there, just beneath his skin. He wonders if it's a warning, reminding him of a promise he never intended to make, a responsibility Harry never wanted to take on. 

A failure Harry had allowed to happen. 

He drinks more to ease the pain, and he stays silent, telling no one about the magic that's seeping from him, that's becoming harder and harder to control as it's bottled up inside of him, angry and wild, setting Harry aflame from the inside until he picks the bottle up again to quench it as best he can. And still the magic rears up sometimes, colliding with the magic of the house itself. Glasses have exploded when Harry touches them, the shards slicing open Harry's fingers. Mirrors shattered, books thrown from the bookcases to the floor. The magic had sent Kreacher flying across the room once when Harry had walked past, nearly concussing the elderly elf. Harry orders Kreacher to stay away now, to leave Harry alone in whatever room he's in. And Harry's stopped letting his friends come by to see him, worried that he'll hurt them without thinking if he's upset. The only thing he knows to do is to keep himself apart from the others, to protect them from himself the only way possible. Work's almost impossible; Harry holes himself up in his office, leaves the moment he feels the magic start to shift once more, the moment the whisky stops keeping it at bay.

Harry knows Gawain will probably discipline him formally soon, and he could care less. He'll just drink more after he's dismissed.

And still nothing takes the pain away. Not completely. It dampens it, keeps it in check, but Harry's still in agony, still lost, adrift. He keeps expecting Draco to walk through the door, to Floo, to firecall. Harry hears Draco whisper to him in his sleep, sees him just outside of his peripheral vision, expects him over his shoulder at any moment. Every morning Harry wakes up alone in their bed, cradling Draco's pillow to him, his face wet with tears, his heart aching. Empty. 

He has to accept that Draco probably isn't coming home. Not soon, anyway. Harry doesn't think the Americans will kill him, but then again, they've done worse. To them, Draco's just a Death Eater, a liability, an expendable pawn in a long, long chain of cruelty. At best, they'll hide him away, keep him locked up for as long as they want. Everyone knows what can happen in a power struggle, and there's no reason for MACUSA to save Draco. Not if it means going against Aldric Yaxley. Alma and Martine are helping as they can from inside MACUSA, but there's only so much they can do without putting themselves in danger. The last time Martine had rung Jake up, there'd been the obvious click of a wiretap charm on the line. Wilkinson's doing most likely, and that's cut off any contact with the few allies they might have at MACUSA. And if even Hermione can't figure out where Draco's gone, no one else on the British side is going to be any help at getting him back. Not Croaker, not Gawain, not Kingsley.

Not even Harry.

And the shit of it is, Draco means everything to Harry. Harry can't think properly without him, can't order his life. He knows it's mental; he knows he should probably be committed to the Thickey Ward at this point, but he has to keep trying to function. To pretend he can do something. To keep getting up and going in to rage, even if it's futile.

But Draco's not here. And if he's not coming home, if the Ministry leaves him lingering in some illegal American prison camp, Harry's going to burn down all of goddamned magical London and then some.

Harry's stomach growls, but he just takes another swig of his watery firewhisky. He doesn't care about food. All it does is take space in his belly better filled by Ogden's. 

There's a scampering in the wall behind Harry's head. Probably a fucking Doxy. Grimmauld's gone to shit; it looks worse than when Sirius had just come back. The house is gloomy, mopey even. There are layers of dust and grime on every possible surface, the windows are streaked with dirt, and even the unused rooms look unkempt. Kreacher's doing his best, trying to fight back the magical decay; Harry can hear him whinging in the hallway even now as he mops down the landing. Still, the stairs are creaky and filthy, the hot water's cold and the cold water's hot, there's some odd smell in the library Harry doesn't want to investigate, and the Floo keeps sparking for no reason at all.

It's pretty much how Harry feels too. He's oddly touched that the house is unhappy. At least they can wallow together.

Harry pushes himself up into a sitting position, his back aching. He looks down at his half-empty glass. Perhaps he should eat something, not because it'll keep him from passing out--which is the only way he sleeps now--but because he'll be more functional in the morning if he's at least some food in him. Harry looks around for something edible within easy reach. Kreacher's been leaving sandwiches and crisps in some of the rooms in the hopes that Harry will eat them. Not that Harry does, of course, which means there's nothing now. Kreacher must have given up on that.

Ah, well. Comfort is overrated, Harry thinks, and he lifts his glass to his mouth again. Besides, it's Saturday. No need to be functional until fucking Monday at the earliest. 

There's a rattle in the Floo, and Harry eyes it unhappily, hoping the wards hold. Last time, it was Ron, coming to make sure Harry kept down the bowl of chicken soup he'd brought over whilst warning Harry about not taking any potions when he's drinking. Not that Harry would. He's mental, but he's not that desperate. Not yet at least. And when Ron had started chiding Harry about going to see his Mind Healer again, Harry'd just put the spoon back in the bowl and, as politely as he could, pushed Ron back into the Floo, slamming the wards shut behind him. No one else has come through since. 

Harry knows he should firecall Freddie, but he's barely been able to get himself to work, much less anything else. And he's not able to leave England, so there's that. Hard to go to Paris for a Mind Healing session if you can't pop across the Channel without the whole of the Auror force coming after you. It's a good excuse, Harry thinks. 

Of course, Ron's right. Harry's absolutely avoiding his feelings, but damn it, they're his to avoid. Besides, he's coping with losing his Draco, and, all things considered, Harry thinks he has every sodding right to be dysfunctional right now.

Nothing he's lost in his life was ever like this. 

Everything has always been like this.

There's a heavy rap at the front door, loud and booming in the silence of the house. Harry hears Kreacher's gruff tones and then nothing more. Harry knows that Kreacher's been turning most everyone away, and he's oddly grateful to the crotchety old elf. His sneaky attempts to get food into Harry has been a lost cause, but Harry does appreciate the effort. He reaches for the bottle of Ogden's on the floor and pours another finger of whisky before settling back into the corner of the sofa. Fuck it. He might as well sleep here.

A cleaning spell zings up the staircase, slamming the library doors open, pulling the curtains back to let the last little bits of evening sunlight fill the room. Harry pauses, his glass halfway to his mouth. The library actually brightens up, which means the house is cooperating too. Harry sets his glass down on the sidetable with a frown. There's a light tread on the front stair. Harry turns on the sofa, waiting to see who's idiot enough to brave the Gryffindor lion's den now. Perhaps Parkinson, or even Zabini. The house doesn't give a shit about impressing Harry's friends.

The last person Harry expects to appear in his library is Narcissa Malfoy. She stands tall and elegant in the entrance, wearing a tailored black dress and a light cloak that she slides off her shoulders, draping it over her arm as she looks around the room, taking in the dust mites dancing in the air and the griminess of the window panes. Her hair is pulled back in a loose chignon at her neck, and she looks so much like her son that Harry's heart rips open with a grief that nearly doubles him over, his arms wrapped around one of the cushions Draco had conjured for the sofa just days before they'd left for Thibodaux.

"Oh, dear," Narcissa says mildly, setting her cloak on the seat of a needlepoint chair. "This is far worse than I thought."

She raises a wand, and with one quick sweep of it through the air, the library is clean, papers sorted into neat piles, and books back on the shelves. Her nose wrinkles and after another flick of her wand, the room smells almost like the ocean, a clean salt smell wafting across the space. "Not optimal," Narcissa says. "But better." She walks over to the sofa, and, after a quick zap of the cushions tossed across the tufted leather raises and vanishes a cloud of dust, she sits down next to Harry. "Hello, my dear." She reaches out, smoothes Harry's hair back from his forehead. "You look terrible."

Looking at her face, Harry is reminded that she's just lost her husband and had her son disappear in one month. Her blue eyes are bright and determined, her pointed chin firm. "Mrs Malfoy," he manages to get out, and then something deep inside of him crumples, gives way, and the tears Harry's been keeping back for days overflow, spilling down his cheeks, hot and angry. 

And then Narcissa's pulling him against her, holding Harry close as she strokes his back, lets him cry against the soft cotton of her black dress. Harry hates himself for his weakness, but there's something about Narcissa's gentle touch, her soft murmurs in his ear, the faint scent of lilies on her skin. His sobs are loud and raspy in his ear, uncontrollable, and Harry tries so hard to keep them back.

"Don't, darling," Narcissa whispers. "Let it all go."

In the safety of her arms, Harry does. He lets himself fall apart, lets himself feel the grief he's been holding back, lets it rise up over the anger and the fear, lets the storm of anguish roll over him until he's spent and exhausted, lying against Narcissa Malfoy's breast, her fingers smoothing through his thick hair. This is what it's like to have a mother, Harry realises, to have someone there who will hold you through moments like this, who will let you feel feelings that are otherwise too terrifying to face. He draws in a ragged, uneven breath, the steady rhythm of Narcissa's heartbeat comforting, calming him. She brushes a soft kiss across the top of his head, and Harry closes his eyes, a calmness settling over him, if only for a moment.

And then Narcissa touches his cheek, ever so gently. "Harry, I'm sorry." Her voice is soft, barely a whisper; her breath is warm and sweet against his skin.

Harry almost laughs. He's silent, and then he sighs. "Why should you be sorry? I'm so sorry that he's-- That I--" He can't get the words out. They stick in his throat like toffee. 

Narcissa's hand settles on Harry's back. "That what? That you brought Draco on a mission, that he was an Unspeakable, that he's been captured by a bad sort?" 

All of those, yes, Harry wants to say. "That I couldn't protect him," he whispers finally. He squeezes his eyes shut, tries to keep back the burn of more tears. He draws in a slow, uneven breath, his lungs aching at the effort. 

"Rubbish." Narcissa's voice is unsentimental. Flat even. Harry pulls away from her, wiping the back of his hand across his eyes. She watches him, her face calm. "Draco never needed you to protect him. He's perfectly capable of doing do himself. My son chose to put himself on a dangerous mission because, like you, he believed in it. He's good at what he does, Harry. He wouldn't have made Sergeant if he hadn't been. And he has always been proud that he was an Auror. Proud also that he became an Unspeakable. This is his career. His decision. Not yours. I'm terribly afraid you've nothing for which to be apologetic."

Harry blinks at her, his eyes scratchy and hot, his repetitive self-pity narrative grinding to a halt. "But I could have stopped him. I should have!" He's replayed that moment in his mind, Draco running towards him, shouting at him, asking Harry if he loved him. Harry should have grabbed Draco, should have used the force of Draco's shove to pull them both through the portal before it closed. He thinks it would have worked, no matter what Hermione says about the physics of it being impossible without severing Draco's legs. His throat aches. "I should have," he says, his voice catching. He wants to believe it so bloody badly, wants to believe that this wasn't some random twist of fate, that if only Harry could have been quicker, cleverer, _something_ , Draco would be sat beside him right now. They would have been planning their life together. He wouldn't be here, drinking alone.

"Oh, please. The hell you could have." Narcissa smiles, thinly, the half-curve of her lips so very like Draco's. Between that and the unexpectedness of her swearing, Harry's rather unnerved. She looks at him and sighs. "Draco is as stubborn as you. That's why you're so well matched." She touches Harry's hand. "And I know my son. Possibly better than you do," she says, a tinge of amusement behind the pain in her voice. "And from what I understand, he did what he did because he wanted you safe. He loves you, Harry. In a way I've never seen Draco love anyone else. My son has always been careful with his affections, unwilling to put his heart on the line. Until you, until this summer." 

Harry can barely breathe. "I love him," he manages to get out. "I can't imagine going on without him."

"You will." Narcissa's fingers curl around Harry's. She looks down at their joined hands. "As best you can." He knows she's thinking about her husband, knows that the shiver of grief that crosses her face is for not only her son but Lucius as well. "It won't be easy, but you'll stand on your own two feet, with none of this relying on firewhisky any longer." She gives him a sharp look. "Draco would be most displeased if he knew about that."

"I know." Harry nods slowly, uncertain. He's more than a bit drunk, but Narcissa Malfoy is trying to make him feel better, and that's something Harry never thought would happen in his life. "But it's just that I can't do anything." Harry's throat is tight, almost as if he can't breathe with the panic that's still rising up in him now that his grief is receding. "I don't know where he is." 

Narcissa smoothes Harry's fringe back from his face. "Yes." Her eyes are sad, the lines around her mouth deep with worry. "It looks very bad right now. But I do believe he's alive, Harry. Draco wouldn't have the audacity to die on either of us at the moment, I can assure you that."

Harry wishes he had her certainty. He closes his eyes for a moment, feels the soft warmth of her touch on his skin. He tries to breathe, tries to push against the constriction in his chest. "He was going to move in here, you know," Harry says finally. His heart hurts so badly. "We'd talked about it. We were going to tell everyone, to be official about all of…' His eyes flutter open. He looks around the library, takes in the small little touches of Draco that are still there. The cushions. The way a stack of old books are arranged on one corner of the mantel. The silver vase on the sideboard that Draco had insisted Kreacher fill with flowers from the garden, now empty. "All of this." 

"I will admit to having my reservations about the two of you at first." Narcissa's studying him, a tendril of her pale blonde hair brushing her cheek. "But the two of you are good for each other, and I'm happy for you both, that you found one another." She tilts her head, sighs softly. "You're mine as well now, Harry. I hope you know that. My son chose you, and that's all I need to know. I'm here whenever you need me." 

"Thank you," Harry manages to say. He lays his hand over Narcissa's. "That goes both ways, you know."

Narcissa squeezes his fingers quickly, then eyes him. "Well. I must say Draco would never forgive me if I let you sink into this sort of squalour. I can't let him return to you like this." She hesitates, then lifts her chin. "And if he's not coming back, well, he'd haunt us both for this sort of untidy maudlinity, wouldn't he?" She tries to smile, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes. Harry knows, whatever she might say, she's as worried about Draco's safety as he is. "Besides, we'll need to get back at those American bastards who took him. So either way, there's no time to waste." She stands, runs her hands over her skirt to smooth out the wrinkles Harry'd left in the cotton. "Now up with you! I've had my elves make dinner--Kreacher's warming it right now, and I won't hear of you not eating it, do I make myself clear?" 

All Harry can do is nod.

"Good." Narcissa pulls a small phial from her pocket, pressing into Harry's hand. It's a sobering potion, and he glances up at her in surprise. She gives him an even look in return. "You don't think Kreacher's told me exactly what's going on in this house? Darling, I'm a Black, and I'm Draco's mother. Both Kreacher and I have indulged your drinking long enough. Take this, go take a shower, and join me in the dining room in half an hour. Properly dressed, please."

With her hand under his elbow, Harry stands. As he does, his sleeve rides up, revealing the edges of the ink on his forearm. Narcissa stills, looking at it. "Oh," she says, and her gaze flicks over to Harry. 

Harry pulls his cuff down. "It's nothing." He tries to turn away, but Narcissa catches his elbow. 

"It's a charm, Harry." Her face is worried. "And not a pleasant one from what I can tell."

Harry doesn't know what to say, so he just looks at her. 

Narcissa's silent for a moment, and then she shakes her head. "We'll talk about over dinner. Sober yourself up first."

And Harry doesn't argue. He takes the potion with Narcissa watching, handing her back the empty phial. The potion is stronger than anything he's ever taken; it kicks in almost immediately, making him gasp and cough, the force of it bending him over. For a moment he thinks he might sick up, and then his stomach settles a little. He inhales, his head clearing. It's almost as if his magic knows Narcissa, almost as if it responds to her in a way it could never to anyone else, except Draco.

"Better?" Narcissa asks, and Harry nods again, still too queasy to object. "To the bath then."

As Harry goes up the staircase, he can hear Narcissa on the landing, ordering Kreacher about and casting spells.

Really, Harry knows he should resent the intrusion, but he doesn't. In fact, he's profoundly grateful. For the first time in two weeks, Harry feels grounded.The raging beast of his anger and fear recedes, and he makes his way up the stairs to get ready for dinner. He thinks Draco might just be proud of him, if he were here.

Harry just wishes he was.

***

Water pours down Draco's face, through the dark hood that smells of sick and mould. He's learnt to hold his breath by now, to keep his mouth shut as long as he can before he has to gasp for air, sucking the filthy fabric past his bruised, split lips. The guards are stupid, he thinks; they've set into a rhythm of dousing him with water, and he's been able to count the beats between each bout, to prepare himself, breathing shallowly enough to fill his lungs with air before the guards notice.

Draco sputters and chokes, his body jerking in its bonds. Just before his mind starts to fuzz, he feels himself being pulled upright again, and he's coughing, his throat raw and aching. He can hear the guards moving around him, hear their murmurs. There are at least two of them, Draco's certain of that. Maybe more. 

His stomach rumbles. He doesn't know how long it's been since he's eaten. They'd given him something the night before he thinks. Time tends to curve around him here. It'd been bread soaked in milk, soggy and vile, but it'd been food and he'd choked it down, still surrounded by the shadows in his cell. 

No one's told him what they want from him through any of this. Draco thinks they're enjoying his torment. He remembers from Auror training that this sort of prisoner mistreatment never works, not the way proponents think it should. They're not breaking his will here, no matter what they've tried; Draco's more determined to resist than ever, just to infuriate the wankers. He won't give them the satisfaction of seeing him fall apart, whatever they may try to do to him. All he has to do is close his eyes, think of Harry standing in the hallway of Grimmauld Place, remember their life together. It calms him, centres him, gives him the strength to carry on. Draco can lose himself in that quiet place, wrap himself in memories of Harry, treasured gems that he pulls from compartments in his mind, holds open in his palms, watching them play out. They fill him with warmth, with happiness. With peace.

Harry will help him survive this. He already has. 

The hood's pulled off Draco's head. It scratches his cheek, the wet burlap coarse against his skin. Draco blinks against the gloom of his cell, the deep shadows that hide its corners. It's a large room; he's figured that out by pacing the walls, trailing his hand along the rough brickwork. Each corner takes him a hundred and twenty steps, and on the farther wall the door's halfway from one corner to the next, its broad length slick and smooth against his fingertips. There's no knob, no way of opening it from the inside of the room. 

"Give him space," a woman's voice says. Draco's heard it before, earlier. He turns his head, his vision blurred. He blinks, and it clears a bit. He thinks he sees her, a pale face in the dimness.

The shadows fall back; Draco can feel the guards hands on him, loosening the leather straps binding him to the board. When he's free, he takes a step forward, then his knees give out, and he falls to the floor. He's breathing hard, his lungs burning with each expansion. He hears the soft tap of heels against the floor's flagstones, and then he catches a faint whiff of perfume again, light and floral. The woman squats beside him; Draco looks up at her, takes in her sky blue suit, the long, pale curve of her calf. Her hair is brown, greying at the temples, and she wears it twisted back at her nape. She looks remarkably like Althea, Draco thinks, except her eyes are a deep blue. They're extraordinary, really, like the velvet of the sky on a summer night, and Draco's caught by them, looking into their depths before he can stop himself. 

"You know who I am," the woman says with a faint smile. 

Draco shakes his head. He can feel her amusement, and he pushes just a little bit with his mind, trying to pull more from her. 

"I'd rather you not." She turns her head, breaking Draco's tenuous connection. "That's rather rude, Mr Malfoy."

"Unspeakable Malfoy," Draco manages to say. His voice sounds raw, raspy. 

The woman inclines her head ever so slightly. "My apologies." She studies him out of the corner of her eye. "You know my father," she says. "And my son." Her laugh is soft, warmer than Draco expects. "You've met them both, I believe, at one time or another."

Draco's head hurts. He looks at her, almost uncertainly, before he understands. "Astrid Harkaway."

"Or Yaxley, whichever you prefer." Astrid's smile is tight and cool. "I am in the process of separating from my current husband, after all." She clicks her tongue lightly. "Armand wasn't as supportive of Les as I'd have wanted him to be, but I suppose it's more difficult for a certain type of man to be a father figure to a child not his own." 

"Sounds like a twat," Draco says. His lips hurt; the scabs over them break, and he can taste blood. 

Astrid looks pleased. "My thoughts exactly. Although perhaps I might have worded it less vulgarly." She watches him, and Draco's struck by how much Yaxley Althea must have in her through her mother. The way Astrid's eyeing him reminds him so much of the Whitaker he'd known before she joined Seven-Four-Alpha: wary and with a certain amount of disdain. "I understand Roddy's explained Les's connection to your family."

"As a bastard? Yes." Draco expects Astrid to bristle, but she doesn't. Instead she shrugs.

"The kings of England had bastard sons who went on to rule the country in their own ways," Astrid says, her voice even. "I expect the same from my son. I named him after his father, you know. Lestrange Harkaway, but neither Father or Armand would let me be so blatant publicly about his parentage." She looks a bit miffed. "Particularly given the troubles in Britain at the time. So I settled for Les, and when he was old enough, I told him the truth."

Draco can only imagine how well that went down. "Let him know that his shit of a sperm donor was locked up in prison, did you? Seems like blood runs true in that regard."

Astrid just laughs. "Charming, aren't you, Unspeakable?" She leans forward, her face mere inches from his. Draco wonders if he has the strength to fight her, if he could take her down, get past the guards, make his way out of wherever the hell they've hidden him away. "My son's proud of his father," she says quietly. "Unlike others I could name who caused their own father's death."

And that stabs Draco deeper than any physical wound she could have given him. He looks away, his mouth tightening. 

"You fascinate me, you know." Astrid looks at him, her face curious. "They haven't broken you with anything they've done for the past fortnight."

Draco glances back at her in surprise. "Fortnight?" Has it been that long? His stomach twists; Harry will be frantic, Draco knows. Unease rolls through him, his anxiety welling up at the thought of Harry trying to find him, being unable to. That tight band of panic constricts his chest again for the first time since he's been here. He doesn't care about himself, about what he's going through. He's worried about Harry. The Gryffindor prat must be beside himself; Draco only hopes he hasn't done anything terribly idiotic yet, hopes that Granger and Pansy can keep Harry calm, keep him focussed. 

Astrid's mouth twitches to one side. "You wouldn't know, of course. Not with the charms they've placed around you. They're meant to disorient, to keep you unsettled. Rather effective, I'd say." Her gaze is cool as it sweeps across him. "But yes, a fortnight, and you're still resisting. I knew you were strong, but this mental fortitude of yours is beyond anything I've seen before. Very impressive, and something my father's most interested in when it comes to you."

"Like I give a fucking shit what your father thinks." Draco lets his belligerence spill out. It covers the way his heart's pounding, the fear that's rising up along with the bile in his belly when he thinks of Harry now. 

"But you should." Astrid touches his jaw, turning his head into the faint bit of light. Draco winces. "Poor thing. They have been cruel to you here, haven't they? Mr Wilkinson is a bit of a sadist, I'm afraid."

Draco jerks away; the rush of pain that twists through his head takes his breath. He tries to hide it, but he knows she sees. "I'm fine."

Astrid's groomed eyebrows go up. "Liar." Another wave of amusement rolls off her, tweaking the edges of Draco's mind. "You're a talented neuromancer, you know. One of the best I've encountered, and with such little training. You could be of great use to us, and my father's very willing to reward his tools." Her knuckles graze his cheek; her eyes gleam with a fervency that Draco hasn't seen in years. It terrifies him if he's honest. "After all, it's not as if your family hasn't believed in our cause before. Nor are you without blood on your hands, little dragon."

"I've paid for that," Draco says, his voice low. "I won't--"

"You will." Astrid's fingers catch his chin, her nails digging into the soft flesh of his throat as she pushes his head back. The pain throbs; Draco grits his teeth, trying to resist. "One day." She lets his jaw go.

Draco nearly falls backwards, catching himself on one arm, his wrist wrenching painfully behind him. "Fuck you," he says, and he doesn't give a damn what she might think.

Astrid stands. She glances over at the guards, lurking in the shadows. "I want him ready for transport," she says, and there's a coldness to her voice that wasn't there before. She looks back down at Draco, and she smiles, thin and tight. "I understand MACUSA plans to host you for quite some time, Unspeakable Malfoy. Perhaps you'll be more comfortable in Oudepoort than here." She steps backwards, the shadows swirling around her again. "Consider it my gift to you. A welcoming, if you will."

Hands reach for Draco, grabbing him, pulling him to his feet. He hangs, almost limply between the two guards, as an Incarcerous wraps around him, holding him tighter than Wilkinson's Lamia had days ago--weeks ago--Draco doesn't know.

A heavy grimness settles over him. He's alive, at least, and if he's in Oudepoort he can get a message to Harry. Somehow. He'll pay whatever it requires. Draco just needs Harry to know he's here. He's alive. He'll survive whatever comes his way as long as he knows his Harry's safe. 

Draco can only hope he is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, you can subscribe for Tales from the Special Branch updates [here on AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/series/661862) or follow me [on tumblr at femmequixotic!](http://femmequixotic.tumblr.com). I'm taking Special Branch asks there. 
> 
> Next chapter will be posted on Sunday, June 3!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are strong emotions, politics, and glimmers of hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Two has arrived, clocking in at just over 21K! I hope you're as excited as I am to be back with the Special Branch. This week, I found the characters had a lot of feelings to spew forth, and who was I to keep them from emoting? Special shout-outs to my awesome crew, sassy cissa and noeon, for cheerleading this one, even when I was worried that the times were getting too grim for Seven-Four-Alpha. 
> 
> If you need a bit of restorative Drarry happy after this, may I recommend sassy-cissa's fic, [“A Scandal, An Exile, A Snarky Blond Delivery Man and Three Reindeer"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6911491), which has just been remixed with lovely art by potter-art (click here for the absolute gorgeousness: [A Bad Boy, A Bookworm, A Heated Kiss and Two Scandals](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14726142)). Enjoy, my dear ones!

The narrow wooden seats in the upper gallery of the Wizengamot chamber may be beautifully carved with figures from wizarding history peering out from complex knots of vines and floral accents, but they're also ridiculously uncomfortable. 

Hermione shifts; the edge of her seat digs into her thighs. She's been sat here for a good hour now, bored out of her mind on a Tuesday morning as she listens to the various Members of the Wizengamot argue in favour of or against Griselda Marchbanks' idiotic Death Eater Registry. To be honest, there are a far too few of the latter camp for Hermione's liking, but she supposes that's not entirely unexpected. Marchbanks and her erstwhile supporter Ernest Hawkworth have both been pushing their legislation in recent days; Marchbanks to the general public and the more restrained Hawkworth behind closed doors from what Hermione's heard. She doesn't know which has been more effective, really. There's a swell of public favour growing, particularly now that the bloody _Prophet_ 's come on board, and nothing Kingsley's been able to say has staunched any of it. He's just found himself in the cross-hairs, and Hermione's half-certain Saul Croaker has his finger on the trigger. 

She crosses one leg over the other, hoping that the blood will start flowing to her extremities again, and tugs at the hem of her teal skirt, straightening it and smoothing it out so it lies flat just above her knee. She has to be careful how she holds herself up here. The seats--left unchanged since Victoria bloody Regina had ascended the throne as far as Hermione can tell, and fuck pompous wizarding traditions, ta ever so--are awkwardly placed in tiers. The last thing Hermione wants is an upskirt photograph of her running in the _Prophet_ tomorrow morning. Really, she doesn't know who'd be more irate, Ron or Harry at the moment. They both despise London's wizarding paper of record on a good day.

And these recent days have not, in any stretch of the imagination, been good. The _Prophet_ 's in a pitched battle with Kingsley's administration, and Orla Quirke's latest article just this morning had been all about Harry once again, speculating on his absence from his duties in the Auror force, as well as rumours that his team's most recent actions had involved a covert mission in a foreign country, thus overstepping the jurisdictional bounds of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. And the hell of it, Hermione thinks, is that Orla's not half-wrong. It _had_ been a risky move to send Seven-Four-Alpha to the States, and it's one Hermione's second-guessed herself on since Harry'd come back sans Malfoy. If it hadn't been for her support, she knows Kingsley and Gawain would have been more hesitant to give in to Tom Graves' request. Whatever Harry might say, Hermione thinks she holds far more responsibility for Malfoy's capture than anyone wants to lay at her door. Every time she's seen Harry these past few weeks that guilt has bubbled up inside her. She could have stopped them from going. Perhaps she ought to have done.

Hermione rubs a hand over her temple. The headache she's been fighting off all morning is still there, throbbing dully in rhythm with the raised voices on the Wizengamot floor below her. The one thing she's glad of is that Harry's in the office today, looking distinctly more sober than he had last week. He's still not sleeping--she can tell that by the dark circles beneath his eyes--and the gauntness of his face makes her think he's barely eating. But he'd given her a small smile when she'd seen him in the Atrium this morning, and when he'd returned her hug, he'd been careful but open about it, and he hadn't reeked of firewhisky for the first time in days. Perhaps his clothes might have been a bit tidier, perhaps his hair might need a bit of washing, but he'd felt like Harry again, and Hermione's glad. She'd been so worried, as much as she'd never admit it to him. He'd even said he'd ring her and Ron up, maybe, when he felt a bit more like company. Might even come to supper one night this week as well, and he'd looked surprised when Hermione'd been so enthusiastic about that. Sometimes she thinks Harry forgets how much he's loved, forgets that he has people who want to help him. He'd grown up fending for himself, and then there'd been the war, and he'd tried to protect everyone else before he thought of his own safety. That's Harry, through and through, and she wishes he'd understand how much she and Ron and all his friends want to step in, want to help him however they can. But Harry'd been careful about not promising too much, and Hermione knows not to push before he's ready. She's gone through this before with Harry, just after the war, back when he'd shut himself away from practically everyone except Ginny. 

For a moment, Hermione wonders if she should send Gin an owl, let her know how badly Harry's been, but she thinks that would cross a line for all of them. It's difficult sometimes, trying to find the balance between Harry and Ginny, now that they're exes. There are times Hermione wishes things had gone another way, times when she wonders what it would have been like if Harry'd settled down with Ginny, if he'd made himself a proper part of the Weasley family. But now she thinks of Harry's face when he mentions Malfoy, and she knows Harry'd never looked like that when he'd been with Ginny. Or anyone else, Jake included. As much as it makes her uneasy at times, she knows Malfoy's been good for Harry, he brings Harry to life in a way she's never seen before, and if she has to move bloody heaven and earth to find the pointy little bastard, she will. 

The chair next to her creaks as someone sits down with a soft sigh. Hermione looks over; she's surprised to see Millicent Bulstrode frowning down at the MWs still pontificating on the floor. 

"I thought I'd find you here," Bulstrode says, but she doesn't glance over at Hermione. Her dark curls are pulled back from her face, clasped at the nape of her neck with a simple gold clip that's nearly hidden by the thickness of her hair. Bulstrode's in a cream silk shirt and black suit, one well-tailored for her curvy figure, Hermione notices. Even the hem of her pressed trousers has been fitted for her height; it brushes the top of her foot as she crosses one leg over the other. Three strands of pearls are twisted together around her neck, coiled like a snake, thick as Hermione's wrist, heavy and expensive and oh so very old, each ivory pearl gleaming like a serpentine scale in the light from the lamps floating overhead. Bulstrode's dressed for battle, Hermione realises, and she wonders what case Bulstrode's taking on in court today.

Hermione studies Bulstrode for a moment. Her face is set, almost impassive as she watches Griselda Marchbanks shout down Timothy Perkins, one of the few vocal supporters of the Kingsley's government still willing to battle her. Most of the others have thrown up their hands, marked Marchbanks down as a shrill harpy, but Hermione thinks they're short-sighted, not to mention wrong. Marchbanks is a populist politician, one capable of stirring up the ire of the electorate towards the government. Just look at what she's done so far, with the help of the _Prophet_ and in only a few short months. To underestimate her is dangerous. And incredibly fucking stupid. 

"I wasn't aware," Hermione says after a moment, "that you wanted a meeting."

Bulstrode looks over at her then, and a faint smile quirks her lips. She's not a beautiful woman, Millicent Bulstrode, all solid and defiant in abstinence from the dainty makeup favoured by many women in the Ministry these days, but there's also something about her that's captivating in its own way. Hermione thinks she understands why Hannah Abbott might just be so besotted. "It's not something I wanted to bandy about." She's silent for a moment, then she sighs. "You're looking for Draco, I've been told."

And Hermione doesn't have to ask by whom. Zabini, she supposes. Perhaps Parkinson. She shrugs, ever so slightly, and she keeps her voice low. "Not that it's done any good." She glances around the gallery. There aren't many Ministry employees here, thank Merlin, and the few members of the press corps are down at the other end, far enough away that they couldn't overhear even if they tried. Hermione relaxes a little, at least until she catches sight of Orla Quirke's ginger hair in the midst of them. 

"It wouldn't." Bulstrode frowns. She leans back in her chair, the wood creaking as she does. Her fingers, short and wide, the nails buffed but not polished, tug at the cuff of her jacket. "Not if he's in one of the extrajudicial camps." Her gaze flicks over to Hermione. "You've thought of that, I'm certain."

Hermione hesitates, then nods. "It's almost impossible to get those records." She knows it doesn't bear saying, not really, but she feels as if she has to defend herself somehow. 

Bulstrode's mouth twists up again, ever so slightly. "I'm not attacking."

One never knows with a barrister, Hermione wants to say, but she holds her tongue and waits, instead. Below Marchbanks is still blustering, with Ernest Hawkworth looking on from her side, lanky and thin and almost milquetoast in his silence. 

"They won't keep him indefinitely," Bulstrode says after a moment. "It'd be foolish of them. Even an idiot like Wilkinson would know that. Not given Potter's influence with Luxembourg, which, mind, I think we ought to use to our benefit."

Hermione doesn't disagree. She just hasn't known how to bring it up to Harry yet. Not without setting him off again. "Is this your legal advice?" she asks, and Bulstrode clasps her hands together, letting them rest on her thigh. She pauses, looking out over the Wizengamot floor again before she answers.

"Not officially." Bulstrode flicks a piece of lint from her trousers. "I'm not well-versed on the particularities of the American legal system, to be honest. If we want him released, we'll need to engage someone there. I've a few defence barristers who might be of use in assisting us with New York connections--"

"Then why come to me?" Hermione gives up all pretence of paying attention to the Wizengamot. She leans closer to Bulstrode. "I'm not in legal services--"

Bulstrode's eyebrow goes up, thick and dark and obviously surprised. "Because you're a bloody Unspeakable, Granger. Because you're Saul Croaker's right-hand bitch from what I've heard--and I say that with the utmost compliments, mind--and because you've access to Potter. If anyone can batter through the bureaucratic idiocy that comprises our so-called special relationship with our cousins across the pond, it's you." She's silent for a moment, a grimness settling across her features. "And because I don't trust anyone else in this Ministry of ours." Her gaze flicks towards the Wizengamot floor. "Not with this rubbish going on."

"She won't win," Hermione says, but her words sound empty and wan even to her. She doesn't believe that's true, if she's honest, and she can tell by the way Bulstrode scowls over at her that Bulstrode doesn't either. 

"Prejudice feeds off fear." Bulstrode sounds tired, worn out. "Believe me. I've seen it firsthand from the other side." She looks back out over the Wizengamot floor. She breathes out, a soft, quick huff of breath that Hermione isn't certain is a laugh or a sigh. "Indulged in it myself from time to time back during the war." 

Hermione doesn't know what to say to that. She remembers Bulstrode as a terrible cow back in school, vicious and cruel when she wanted to be. It's hard to reconcile that girl with the woman sat next to her today. "I suppose we've all changed in our own ways," she says after a moment, and Bulstrode turns a half-amused look on her. 

"Or we hope we have." Bulstrode uncrosses her legs and leans forward, her elbows on her knees. She steeples her fingers, presses them against her mouth. Beneath them Marchbanks and Perkins are arguing again about the legal implications of including family members without the Mark on the Registry. Agatha Prince, one of the two members for Surrey, is interjecting from time to time, supporting Perkins in his objections to the Registry Act's scope as written, but Hermione can see her flagging already against Marchbanks' onslaught.

Bulstrode shakes her head, leans back in her chair. It creaks again as she slumps against the wooden back. "No one ever understood why I joined the public defence team, you know." She looks over at Hermione. "Even Draco thought it was foolish of me after the war, what with my father being sympathetic to the Death Eater cause." Her jaw works for a moment; she glances away. "But it's things like this I worried about. I've never been in denial about my clients, you know. I'm fully aware that the people I defend are most likely guilty as charged. But they're human beings too, just like you and me and those idiots down there." She waves her hand dismissively towards the Wizengamot floor. "And the moment we lose sight of that, the moment we forget they have families, they have lives that extend past ridiculous ideologies and misguided actions…" Bulstrode shrugs, and her gaze meets Hermione's. "What makes us any better than Death Eaters at that point?" she asks, her voice soft, and Hermione has to look away, her throat tightening. 

She knows Bulstrode's not wrong. They have to be better than their enemies. Harry'd said the same thing, after the war. It's why he'd spoken up for Malfoy and his family, why he'd encouraged Kingsley to focus the hearings on Death Eaters they'd known had broken laws, rather than indulging in a modern-day inquisition like the Ministry had thrown themselves into after the first war. Hermione'd agreed with him then. She still does. But she knows there are still families that are hurting. The Weasleys, for one. And as much as she hates the way George and Percy have thrown their lot in with Marchbanks, there's a part of Hermione that understands, even if only a little bit. She'd been lucky not to lose her parents, but months and months of living beneath a memory charm had left its mark on them both, one that hasn't faded, even eight years later. Hermione's still angry about that, still furious that she'd been forced to spell her very existence out of her parents' minds. Some days, as much as she'd never admit it to anyone, she wants retribution. Wants to make someone pay for what she'd had to do. 

But that's not a world Hermione wants to live in. She flattens her hand against her stomach. It's not one she wants to raise children in, either. What Marchbanks, in her fury, wants to bring about isn't right. Hatred only breeds hatred, and Hermione thinks they've had far too much of that in recent years. 

"We have to find Draco," Bulstrode says, her voice quiet. "Wherever they've put him."

"Even if it causes a diplomatic incident?" But Hermione knows the answer to that already. She'd crossed that line the moment she'd decided to comb through classified files, seeking out every American extrajudicial prison the Department of Mysteries has mapped. Tony Goldstein had been helpful in that regard; he's back in the country, having been officially expelled by MACUSA a few days after Harry and the others arrived back in the Ministry. There are at least three other prisons he'd told her about that haven't yet made it into the official Unspeakable record. One's just off the coast of Venezuela, the other two are on the Pacific side of Guatemala. 

Bulstrode's gaze is calm, steady. "It'll be more of an incident if Potter implodes the Ministry, don't you think?"

Hermione slides her hands together, her fingers curling around each other. That's one of her biggest fears, Harry losing his temper and setting the whole building ablaze. She doesn't think it will happen, but Harry's not been right for the past few weeks, and it's more than just his anger and fear at losing Malfoy. There's an edge to Harry's magic now, and Hermione can feel it, almost as if it's razor-sharp beneath the surface, and it makes her uneasy. She doesn't like it, but she hasn't been able to convince Ron it's something they should worry about. _It's just Harry_ , he'd said, and Hermione doesn't know how to tell him she thinks it's more. Doesn't know how to say there's something else there, something that Hermione can't quite trust. She feels like an awful friend when she thinks about it; she's tried to pretend it's not there, tries to tell herself she's being ridiculous. 

Except she doesn't think she is.

She looks over at Bulstrode. "Who told you he might?" Somehow, her voice stays even. 

"Blaise." Bulstrode meets her gaze. "He's worried."

And that unsettles Hermione more than anything else. Still, she wishes Zabini had come to her, not to Bulstrode, although she supposes that's unfair in its own way. It's not as if she and Zabini have that sort of rapport, after all. So she just nods, and she manages to say, "Harry'll be fine." She has to believe he will. She'll do anything she can to make certain of that. 

Bulstrode doesn't look convinced. "I hope you're right." She's quiet for a long moment, and then she adds, "I have a client who has connections among the American crime families. Not brilliant ones, mind, but strong enough. I'm asking him to find out if they know anything. It's a long shot, but it's something."

"Thank you," Hermione says. She rubs her thumb over a knuckle. There's a hangnail just beneath her cuticle; she thinks about tearing it, but instead she leaves it be. "You'll let me know?"

"If you share what you find out on your end." Bulstrode's gaze is sharp, quick. "And promise me you'll use Luxembourg."

For a moment, Hermione thinks about refusing, but she knows that'd be foolish of her. She nods again. They've the same intentions, after all. Protecting Harry and protecting Malfoy are intertwined now. Hermione hasn't a choice. Not really. "I'll do what I can."

That seems to be enough for Bulstrode. She pushes herself out of the chair, and when she stands, Hermione's surprised by how tall she is. Thick of her, perhaps, but Hermione still sometimes thinks of her old schoolmates as children. Then again, Hermione doesn't always feel as if she's gone past sixteen herself some days, no matter how far her career has taken her, no matter that she's on track for a high Ministry position in the not terribly distant future. She still sees herself sometimes as a teenager, frightened and determined and ridiculously reckless in ways Hermione hopes she'd never be now. 

Although, all things considered, she supposes that's still who she is. At least for the nonce. 

"I'll owl you what I find out," Bulstrode says. "Encrypted, of course, and to your home, not the office." The smile she gives Hermione is thin and taut. "I'm not a complete idiot, after all."

"Wouldn't say you were." Hermione looks up at her. "I promise I'll do what I can."

Bulstrode nods. "Thank you," she says, and then she turns on her heel and strides away, her back ramrod straight. Hermione watches her go, an odd uncertainty twisting through her stomach. Whatever she's just signed herself up for, she's not sure she's ready. Not that it'll make much difference. Hermione knows she'll do everything she can to bring Malfoy back to Harry. She can't bear to see that lost misery etched into the furrows around his mouth, the grief in his eyes. 

It's only when Hermione looks away that she realises they've been watched. Orla Quirke's head is turned Hermione's way; her sharp, bright gaze is fixed on Hermione. She smiles, a quick predatory twist of her mouth that makes Hermione's heart sink, and the small wave Orla gives her, that purple-feathered quill hovering beside her, doesn't help either. 

Fuck, Hermione thinks, but there's nothing to be done for it. Whatever assumptions Orla's going to make are already set; Hermione trying to run damage control won't do anything other than make Orla think she's something to hide. 

So instead Hermione returns a lukewarm smile to Orla before gathering her bag and standing, pretending to check her watch as if she's somewhere important to be. It won't matter; Hermione knows that. But there are moment when optics are more useful than not, and if Hermione can act rationally, simply, perhaps Orla's journo senses will be appeased. 

Not bloody likely, but still. What other choice does Hermione have?

None really, she thinks to herself as she makes her way across the gallery, Marchbanks' voice echoing behind her. Still, the certainty galvanises her. She wouldn't be Gryffindor if she didn't stand her ground, even when the cause seems impossible.

She can only hope that Malfoy truly is safe and sound, wherever the Americans have hidden him away. For Harry's sake, if nothing else. 

Her fingers tighten around the strap of her bag as she steps past the security checkpoint and makes her way down the stairs. Malfoy has to be all right, she tells herself, the tap of her heels echoing against the wide marble steps.

The consequences otherwise don't bear thinking about.

***

"Get up."

The voice is harsh, breaking through Draco's consciousness, pulling him from a dream of golden skin and bright green eyes. _Harry,_ his mind whispers as the remnants of sleep fall away. But Harry's not here. He never will be, save in Draco's dreams. Draco breathes out, the heavy weight of his present reality settling on him again, almost suffocating in its dull ache. 

"Get _up._ " This time the command's accompanied by a quick, painful kick of steel-toed boots that comes dangerously close to Draco's face. Still, Draco knows from experience that if the bastard had meant to hit him, he would have. This was a warning shot. 

Draco shifts, his shoulder twinging sharply as he pushes himself off the thin pile of blankets that's served as his bed for fuck only knows how long. He blinks into the dimness around him. He's lost track of the days, hidden away in this silent, murky room. It might have been two; it might have been twenty since Astrid Yaxley last spoke to him. Sometimes food comes. Sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes he's given only a tin mug filled with lukewarm water, but he drinks it, choking it down regardless of the moldy, musty taste of it. He rubs his cheek, almost absently. More than a fortnight without shaving charms, and he's managed the scruffy start of a beard for the first time. It itches; Draco's not certain fleas haven't set up refuge in his hair.

"Why?" he asks, his voice cracking just a bit. "More plans to torment me?"

The guard just looks down at him, unsmiling. "Final transport orders just came through." He reaches down, jerks Draco to his feet. Draco's whole body protests, but the pain barely registers for Draco. He's used to its steady throb. "Took a while to go through the system." 

Draco can only imagine. He assumes there were angry discussions between Wilkinson and Astrid Yaxley about his release to Oudepoort. He doesn't really care one way or the other. Oudepoort won't be that different from here, he's certain of that. Prison is prison, wherever one might be. Oudepoort's tortures might be different, but they'll still be present. 

He stands still as the guard shackles him, the silvery trails of the Incarcerous wrapping around his wrists and ankles, just loose enough to allow him to shuffle his feet. The guard checks them, adjusts the tightness with a flick of his wand, and then pushes him forward, one hand between Draco's shoulder blades. Draco stumbles forward, manages somehow to stay upright. He walks through the gloom of the cell, his feet bare against the stones, the guard's booted footsteps echoing behind him in the silence. 

"Prisoner secure," the guard shouts, and the door creaks open, warm light spilling into the cell, pushing the shadows back against the walls. Draco blinks with the suddenness of it, his eyes burning, and he squints, turning his head away from the glow. The tip of a wand prods him, and he steps through the doorway into another room, well lit and sparse, a team of five Aurors facing him, wands out, their black robes stark against the white cement block walls. 

Draco wants to laugh. Five Aurors for him, as if he's some sort of dangerous criminal. His eyes water from the brightness of the lamps hanging from the ceiling; when he lifts his bound hands to wipe them against his eyes, there's a flurry of movement, and five wand tips swing towards his face. Draco lowers his hands slowly. 

"Stand down," a woman says from across the room. Draco looks over at her. She's tall and broad-shouldered; her hair--more ginger than a Weasley's--is plaited around her head. There are gold stripes on the biceps of her black robe; she's obviously of higher rank than the others, judging by how they lower their wands immediately. An embroidered badge on her right breast lists her name as Commander Whitcomb. She looks at Draco, evenly albeit not unkindly. "Prisoner Malfoy, we've been instructed to escort you to Oudepoort prison in New York where you'll be held pending trial."

"On what charges?" Draco's lips hurt when he speaks; he can feel the cracks in them splitting, can taste the blood that gathers there. 

Whitcomb eyes him. "Extreme danger to national security is what I've been told." She looks over at the other Aurors. "Transport formation."

Draco flinches as the Aurors fall into place around him, silently, their faces grim, their shoulders set. He doesn't bother to question the charges. MACUSA will make up whatever they want when it comes to holding him. His one hope is that somehow in Oudepoort he can get a message to Harry. Or to Granger, if no one else. He knows they can't deny him access to a solicitor once he's placed there, not like they can in this sodding hellhole. One by one the Aurors attach a thin silver cord to each other, pulling them from a slit in the shoulders of their robes and hooking them on the epaulet of the nearest Auror. The cords glint in the light, a loosely woven web of silver that winds its way around Draco. 

"Transport ready," the Auror in front of Draco barks, his back stiff and straight, and Whitcomb nods. She pulls what looks like a small disc from her pocket, then turns and takes the empty spot to the Auror's right, hooking her own silver cord into his shoulder as the Auror behind her does the same to hers.

"Hold on to the prisoner," Whitcomb says, looking back at the others. "This is going to be one hell of a ride."

The Aurors on either side of Draco grip his elbows tightly, and Draco wants to protest. He keeps his tongue instead, even though his heart's thudding in his chest. 

Whitcomb presses down on the disc, squeezing it between her thumb and forefinger, and for a moment nothing happens. The cords flare suddenly, the silver shining bright as magic zips across them. Draco draws in a shallow breath, and then the world explodes into a kaleidoscope of colour around him, swirling reds and blues and purples that overwhelm Draco, that pull him into a roaring vortex, turning him upside down, buffeting his bruised body, making bile rise in his throat. 

He's retching when they land, his body bent over, thin strands of green sick falling from his mouth, spattering against his bare feet. Despite his not having eaten, Draco's stomach heaves again when the Aurors at his side jerk him upright; Draco tries not to gag as the world lurches around him. 

Whitcomb unhooks her cord, steps out of formation as the others do the same. She pulls a sheet of parchment from her pocket. Draco looks up. They're in another anteroom, this one smaller. Greyer. The walls are still cinderblock, but they're dingy and dull, and heavy plate of spell-proof glass rises up above a wooden half-wall. There's a man sat behind it, small and bald, the pate of his head gleaming in the light cast by the lamp behind him. 

"Prisoner 59304-A-23," Whitcomb says, reading from the parchment. "Being remanded into custody of Oudepoort Prison on the orders of Michael Wilkinson, Director of Magical Security." She slides the parchment through a slit in the glass; the guard on the other side picks it up and frowns down at it. 

"Says here he's to be entered into the records as a John Doe." The guard looks uneasy. "Usually that classification's brought into the locked wards."

Draco stills. If he's not listed under his name, London won't be able to find him. And if Wilkinson's taking that route, then the likelihood he'll be allowed a solicitor any time soon is slim. His heart sinks. 

"Orders from the top," Whitcomb says. "National security or something." She shrugs. "I don't make those calls. I have that paperwork that says for me to bring him here to you. What you guys decide to do is out of my hands."

"Yeah, well, that's up to the warden." The guard's gaze flicks past Whitcomb to Draco. "He's been undergoing questioning, I see." He doesn't seem surprised by Draco's battered state. In fact, his face is utterly blank, his voice dry. 

Whitcomb glances back at Draco. Her look is inscrutable. "I can't comment on that." She turns back to the guard. "His transfer paperwork should be in order."

The guard nods and runs a finger down the parchment, a frown furrowing his brow. "No attorney?" His gaze flicks up. "Not that I'd expect a John Doe to have one, but…"

"One will be assigned at some point, I'm sure." Whitcomb sounds bored. "Whenever his classification changes."

"If he's lucky, they'll be competent." The guard's smile is sharp, almost feral. He taps his wand against the parchment; it makes a duplicate of the paperwork which he slides back through the slit in the glass. "Bring him this way. We'll get him settled."

Whitcomb reaches for Draco's shoulder, pushes him forward. "I'll take him through," she says to the other Aurors. "Wait here."

None of them look as if they want to object. Whitcomb's fingers dig into Draco's skin; she's stronger than he'd expected. He finds himself propelled towards a narrow doorway, the steel door sliding open as they approach. 

"Watch yourself in here," Whitcomb says, her voice low enough that Draco almost thinks he's imagining it. "You think you had things bad before? Oudepoort's a law unto itself. MACUSA'll just try to lose you in the system; they won't kill you. These bastards might." 

Draco glances back at her, surprised, but she's not looking his way. Still, he can tell by the set of her jaw that she's not trying to intimidate him. He thinks she might be trying to give him advice. "Thanks," he murmurs, and she looks at him then, her eyes sharp, and she nods. 

"Our people aren't liked in here," Whitcomb says simply. "The minute they find out you were an Auror, they'll come after you." Her mouth thins. "Probably why you're being transferred. Easier for some people if the criminals kill you first." Her fingers tighten ever so slightly. "I don't agree with that bullshit."

The door slides shut behind them. Another one opens, and Whitcomb pushes him forward into a room that's tiled in dingy white porcelain. "Strip," she says. When Draco looks at her, appalled, she doesn't flinch. "All of it. Off."

Draco wants to refuse, but he knows that'd be foolish of him. Another guard steps into the room, the door closing behind him. He leans against the wall, arms crossed over his chest and watches Draco, almost disinterestedly. 

With slow, careful movements, Draco begins to unbutton his shirt. It's stiff with filth and sweat, stained with his blood, spattered with sick. He can smell himself, the stink of unwashed skin and dirty cotton rising off him. He winces when the shirt slides from his shoulders. He's been wearing it since that afternoon in Thibodaux, he realises, and some of the buttons are torn off. His trousers are next. Or joggers, really. Those the bastards replaced, and Draco's not certain whether that's because they were worried he'd hurt himself with the zip or if he's soiled himself during one of Wilkinson's interrogation sessions. Not that it matters, not really. Draco's past that sort of humiliation now. 

The thick cotton slides down his thighs, pools on the floor around his ankles. His pants are gone--another tick in the column for having soiled himself, he thinks, and he stands in front of Whitcomb and the guard completely starkers. Neither one of them seem to care, although Whitcomb's gaze takes him in. Not sexually, he realises. She's checking for weapons in crevices. Draco bites back a hysterical laugh. As if he could manage any of that now. He hasn't any idea where his wand's gone anyway. He steps out of the joggers, kicks them towards his abandoned shirt. He hates the way Whitcomb's gaze lingers on his arm, taking in the mangled wreck of the Mark before she looks away.

"Shower." The guard speaks this time, nodding towards a corner of the tiled room. A shower head's there, dirty and caked with something flaky and white. Draco walks over, stands beneath it. A moment later, a lukewarm spray of water hits him, and he lifts his face into it. The wetness feels incredible against his skin, and when a flick of the guard's wand sends a bubbly foam spilling across Draco's palms, Draco almost sobs in relief. He scrubs himself, not caring that he's being watched, and he scrapes the dregs of the soap from his skin, rubbing it into his scruffy beard, his lank hair. It's not perfect, but Draco can feel the strands slide through his fingers, wet and squeaking ever so slightly. Whatever he's to face down in Oudepoort, it's worth it for this shower, Draco thinks. 

The water stops far too soon for his liking, and a towel bobs across the room towards him. It's thin and scratchy, but it's adequate enough to dry him off. When he turns back around, Whitcomb has a set of shirt and trousers in her hands, heavy cotton in the most atrocious shade of orange, as well as a pair of clean white pants. Draco takes them from her, puts them on. The shirt scratches his skin, makes it itch, but it's tolerable enough. The trousers are almost too big; they sag down his gaunt belly, the sharp jut of his hipbones holding them up. Draco tightens the drawstring around his waist. It helps, but only a little. 

Whitcomb studies him for a long moment, then she steps back as the guard walks over to a thick book set into the corner of the room. He scrawls something in it, then turns back to Draco, his wand dipping and twisting in a complex bit of charmwork. Draco feels something spark against his clean skin, sharp and quick. Not quite painful, but on the edge of uncomfortable in its own way. 

"Magical signature recorded for Prisoner 59304-A-23, John Doe." The guard glances back at the book. "Assigned to quadrant 48-G, cell block 89." As he speaks, black ink blossoms across Draco's left breast. _59304-A-23._ He's just a number now. A no-one within a prison population. A shiver goes down Draco's spine; he thinks he sees a look of pity cross Whitcomb's face. 

"Then he's yours now," she says to the guard, and she slides her own wand back into the holster on the side of her trousers, half-hidden by her robe. "Poor fucker."

And with that she's gone, and Draco's left alone in the tiled room with the guard who hands him another set of prison clothes as well as sheets and a thin pillow. "Follow me," the guard says, and Draco has no other choice, does he? 

They leave the room, and the moment Draco crosses the threshold, he nearly stumbles, his head swirling, the dizziness nearly overwhelming. The guard just looks at him. "Magical dampener," he says, his voice echoing in the silence of the hallway. "You'll get used to it soon enough." 

Draco supposes he should have expected that. Oudepoort hasn't any Dementors--at least none for guards, so there'd have to be something in place to control the magical abilities of the prisoners. Still, he doesn't care for the way the dampeners make him feel, as if there's something empty and missing deep inside of him. He tries to push out with his mind, tries to feel the thoughts of the guard as he walks ahead of Draco, opening the next heavy door. 

He feels nothing. Hears nothing. It's as if his head's swaddled in cotton wool, muffling anything he might possibly pick up, and Draco hates it. As much as he's uncomfortable at times with his neuromantical abilities, Draco's still found himself used to them as of late. It feels odd to not be able to reach out, to tug at those mental strings that tie him to others. 

The hallway forks into two corridors. "Women are that way," the guard says, nodding towards the left-hand hall. The grin he turns on Draco is feral. Vicious. "Probably be a hell of a while before you catch sight of a pussy again."

Draco doesn't bother to tell him that he doesn't give a damn. He just walks through the next door the guard holds open, finding himself in a long, wide hall lined with barred doors. He sees flashes of orange in some of them, hears the shouts and laughter as they pass by. Draco can't look over at them. He keeps his head level, his chin up, his shoulders back. He knows enough about prisons to be damned certain he won't show any weakness. The slightest bit of vulnerability and there'll be hell to pay. 

Another door, another hallway. More men, these more raucous, some of them clanging their tin cups against the metal bars of their cells. It's not breakfast time yet, Draco realises. They're being held up because of him, their cell doors kept locked until he passes. He wonders if the guards have done that on purpose or if it'd been Whitcomb's plan all along to bring him in at this time. Someone spits at him, and Draco tries not to flinch when it hits his cheek. He stares straight ahead, only the tightness of his jaw indicating how difficult this is for him. 

The guard leads him down another hallway, this one quieter. There aren't as many men here, and the few who are sink back into the shadows of their cells as he passes, watching him with hooded, cautious eyes. He hears a sibilant whisper go from one cell to another until the guard shouts, "Shut up," his voice echoing in the silence of the corridor. 

When they stop beside an empty cell, Draco's stomach twists. It's small, barely the size of the dressing room in Grimmauld Place, if that even. There's a bed and a loo and a sink, above which a polished bit of tin's been screwed into the wall. Oudepoort's version of a mirror, Draco assumes. 

The door creaks when the guard opens it. "Home sweet home, 59304-A-23," he says, and the way his mouth curves up at one side makes Draco's skin crawl. The door clangs shut behind him, and the guard studies him through the bars. "You're pretty enough to do well here," he says after a moment. "But before you go into general population, the warden wants to make certain you're welcomed." And that smile's back again, sharp and cruel. "If you can make it through this lot without us finding you with a shiv stuck out your back, you might have a fighting chance out there." He steps back, raises his voice a bit. "For an ex-Auror, at least."

A whisper goes through the hall again, and Draco can see the others coming to their barred doors, watching him. All except one man, though, who stays back in the shadows. His is the gaze Draco feels the most keenly, burning across Draco's skin, raising a heated flush. 

"Fuck you," Draco manages to get out, and the guard just throws his head back and laughs.

"Half an hour until breakfast, boys," the guard calls out. "Better be getting to know your new cellmate." He whistles off-key as he strides back down the hall. It takes Draco a moment to recognise Celestina Warbeck's. _A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love._

The change of clothes and the sheets slide from his fingers, scattering across the floor. Draco swallows hard, past the thick lump in his throat, as the whispers swirl through the corridor again. 

He's never felt so alone. So hopeless. 

Draco sinks down onto the unmade mattress, the coils of the cot creaking beneath his weight. He closes his eyes and breathes out. 

How he'll make it through this, he doesn't know. But he has to. 

For Harry's sake.

***

"If you set my drapes on fire again, Potter, I'll throw your arse out of my office." Kingsley strides into the room, his face furrowed, his palm running over his the smooth, dark curve of his head. "I'm not in the mood right now."

Harry supposes he's not, given that Kingsley's just come from yet another interview with the _Prophet._ Or at least that's what his aide Michael had said when he'd waved Harry and Gawain into the Minister's office to wait. Harry shifts in his chair; the tufted leather creaks beneath his thighs. "I've no intention of burning anything today," he says, trying to keep his voice mild. Harry hopes he manages to keep that promise. He glances over at Gawain, who's sat beside him, his elbows on the chair arms, his fingers steepled, pressed against his mouth. 

This meeting had been Gawain's decision. He'd summoned Harry to join him in Level One with its mahogany panelling and thick purple carpets not long after he'd realised Harry was in the office. Harry doesn't know why; Gawain's hardly spoken to him since Harry'd stepped off the lift a half hour ago. Harry's not happy about any of this; he'd rather be tucked away in his own office with Zabini and Parkinson, the lot of them working out a plan to find Draco, if they can. Not that they have many options, Harry thinks, a wave of frustration going through him. He tries to push it back, to tamp that anger down again. At least he'd managed to hide himself away until after lunch.

Kingsley eyes Harry as he settles into the seat behind his enormous desk. He waves Michael away when he sticks his head through the doorway. "We're fine," he says, and when the door snicks shut again, Kingsley glances back at Harry. "Aren't we?"

Harry sinks a bit further down into his seat. He feels like a recalcitrant schoolboy being summoned to the headmaster's office again, except Dumbledore'd never given Harry that particular look, the one mixed with just a tinge of fear. He rubs his fingers over his sleeved forearm, where the charm still itches, the words and symbols etched into his skin in black ink, always swirling, always moving. He can feel their power throbbing through his veins in ways he doesn't understand, and he thinks if Kingsley or Gawain ever caught sight of them, that fear of Harry that's seeping from them even now would become a torrent of uneasiness. 

Still he manages to nod, and Kingsley's shoulders relax, if only a bit. Harry folds his arms across his chest, hoping the black letters don't show beneath the cuff of his white sleeve. Narcissa Malfoy had been unsettled by their presence when he'd shown her the other night, and Harry thinks if someone like her, so used to Dark magic, is taken aback by the marks moving across his skin, the bloody Minister of Magic and Head Auror would have him locked away in an instant. 

For the public good, of course. That's always what those sorts of things are, right?

"How'd the interview go?" Gawain asks, and Kingsley's face grows grim. 

"As well as one might expect, given the current situation." Kingsley leans back in his chair. He looks tired, Harry thinks, and a stab of guilt goes through him. He's been so caught up in himself and his own troubles that he hasn't thought of anyone else. Kingsley fiddles with a quill on his desk, twisting it between his fingers. "They're going to bring the Registry to a vote by the end of the week."

That takes Harry by surprise. "Marchbanks doesn't have the votes--"

"She's gaining ground," Gawain says, sitting forward. He doesn't look at Harry; his gaze stays fixed on Kingsley. "Perkins isn't certain how much longer he can hold her off."

Kingsley heaves a deep sigh. "He's fighting still, but he's haemorrhaging supporters. The more the _Prophet_ bangs on about the need for a Registry, the more the public opinion shifts, and general elections are coming up in another year or so. No one wants to be voted out by a constituency riled up by the suggestion one might be willing to protect Death Eaters." 

"But that's not what we're saying." Harry digs his fingers into his shirt, twisting the cotton around them. He can feel the angry thud of his pulse starting to rise. "Marchbanks' legislation doesn't do anything other than punish families for associations, not for what's actually been done or time that's been served." 

"We're all aware." Kingsley drops his quill onto the desk blotter. It rolls over, the nib catching on the corner of a sheaf of parchments. Ink spatters across the edges of the papers; Kingsley doesn't seem to notice. "But what the public thinks is entirely outside of reality sometimes. People aren't informed, Harry, and even when they think they are, they can be swayed by rhetoric and half-truths." His mouth thins. "Isn't that what Grindelwald and Voldemort both did, after all? Sell their followers the fear of being displaced, of having their social standing upturned by the Muggleborn amongst us? Marchbanks is just turning their playbook against them, fueling their own fears, this time of having their families torn apart again, of losing people they love." He falls silent, his large hands resting on the desk in front of him. "It's not as if I don't appreciate that fear," he says after a moment. I served the Order in two wars, after all." 

Harry looks over at the long, paned windows, the ones that look down into the Atrium below. He can see the very top of the Fountain of Magical Brethren, and he wonders if any of this will ever change, if they'll always be fighting the fear of one another. He feels worn out. Unhappy. He hadn't battled Voldemort for this. Perhaps he'd been young and naive and probably thick, but he'd thought once the war was done, once the hearing were over, once the dead were mourned and buried on both sides, they'd all move on. That the right people had been imprisoned, that fair punishments had been meted out. 

That Voldemort's crusade had died along with him. 

What a fool he'd been, Harry realises. It's all still the same; the social structures that had let Voldemort rise are still in place. People like Marchbanks and Hawkworth are still using people's pain and anger against them, claiming to better society when it's nothing more than feathering their own nests with power and influence. Something raw and vicious twists inside of Harry, a righteous fury that wants to spill over, wants to lash out, to burn this whole damned building to the ground. He closes his eyes, pushes back against it, forces it to settle. 

"It's not right," Harry says, his voice hoarse and rough to his own ears. "Any of this." He can almost hear Draco in his head, that laughing, mocking, wonderful voice of his, telling Harry what an awful Gryffindor he can be. His heart aches; he wonders where Draco is, if he's thinking of Harry, if he's wondering where Harry is, if he can't believe Harry hasn't found him yet.

"Life is seldom _right_ ," Gawain says, and he looks over at Harry, his face lined and solemn. "All we can do is try our best to contain the worst of it."

Kingsley picks up the quill again. He runs the feather through his thick fingers, almost absently. "They're going after me, you realise." His gaze flicks towards Gawain. "Skeeter more than implied it in our conversation."

"They won't be successful." Gawain scowls at him. "You're the most popular Minister for Magic we've had since Wilhelmina Tuft."

"Popularity means nothing these days." Kingsley's hands still. The quill looks small clutched between his fingers. "And Perkins has already warned me that he's heard whispers of trying to force my hand into opening a general election more quickly than's been scheduled. It's within my prerogative to move it up, after all." 

Harry knows that's true. It's happened before in recent history. Cornelius Fudge had encountered the same issue; he'd just lost the general election in favour of Rufus Scrimgeour. But Harry can't imagine who'd run against Kingsley and win. The very idea's preposterous. Kingsley's a war hero, and he's been a damned good Minister. Everyone knows that, whatever the _Prophet_ might print. 

Gawain sighs, looks away. "Well." He hesitates, runs a hand over his jaw. "We won't enforce the Registry. I've no intention of wasting my people's time on such idiocy." 

"It won't pass," Harry says, and he knows he's being willfully stubborn, but he can't face what might happen if it did. He doesn't look at Kingsley, doesn't say what he wants to, which is that if Kingsley'd put his foot down in the first place when all this bollocks came up, maybe they wouldn't be here now. Kingsley had opened the door for this back in June when he'd stood at a podium in the middle of the Atrium and announced to the country's press that the Wizengamot would be looking into the possibility of a Registry. Harry'd told him then that he'd practically sanctioned it, that he'd given it the Minister's stamp of approval. He'd been right, and there's no putting this bloody Pandora's box back together. 

Kingsley and Gawain exchange a long, sober glance, and then Kingsley exhales, letting the quill fall from his fingers again. He sits forward, his hands folded together, his elbows pressed into his desk blotter. "Perhaps if you speak against it." He stops, and a weary look crosses his face. "Forgive me," he says. "It's not your place--"

"I already said I would." Harry's mouth tightens. He rubs his palms against the worn arms of his chair. The leather's soft and warm against his skin. He looks over at Kingsley. "I have to do something--" His voice cracks, and he presses his lips together, a well of grief twisting up in him. He breathes out, tries to settle himself. "I owe it to Narcissa Malfoy." And Andromeda, he thinks. This Registry, the way Marchbanks has written it, will affect her too. Not to mention Teddy, and isn't that bloody ironic, given his parents are both war heroes?

A heavy silence falls across the office, and Harry folds his arms around himself again, as if doing so will protect him somehow. 

"We'll find him," Gawain says, his voice quiet. He reaches over, touches Harry's shoulder. "Bertie Aubrey's working on it."

So's Hermione, Harry wants to say, and look at how well that's gone. But he knows he'll sound bitter, and Harry'd promised Narcissa that he'd try to do better, that he'd focus on work and on finding Draco, that he wouldn't let himself slide back into that dark place she'd pulled him from two days ago. But he wants a drink, wants to numb himself from all these feelings that are roiling through him, so many that he can't untangle them all. He just knows that he hurts, and that firewhisky helps. He licks his lip, thinks about the bottle that's hidden in his drawer, the one he'd meant to throw out when he came in this morning, but he hadn't been able to. 

Harry draws in a ragged, raspy breath, one that makes his chest ache. He can't look over at Gawain, or at Kingsley. He can't bear to see the pity on their faces. A rush of fury goes through him, and he wants to throw something, wants to rant and rage, to scream at them that they've no idea what this feels like, not knowing if Draco's even alive, not knowing what he can do. Harry's never felt so helpless, and his fingers curl into fists, his nails digging deeply into the flesh of his palms. 

"I know this is hard," Kingsley says, and Harry can't help the scathing glare he sends the Minister's way. It doesn't seem to faze Kingsley, not even when a tiny curl of smoke twists up from the sheaf of papers. Kingsley just sets a brass paperweight on it, smothering the small flame. Harry looks away, tries to exhale, tries to let go of the worthlessness that's filling his soul. "We haven't given up on Unspeakable Malfoy. Even Saul's trying to get him back."

And Harry's certain of that. Draco's an asset to Croaker, one he'd never want to fall into MACUSA's hands. Croaker must be furious about this, and Harry feels a flicker of guilt for not worrying more about Hermione and what she must be facing down, deep within the depths of the Department of Mysteries. 

So Harry just nods, and he swallows past the aching lump in his throat, exhales through the vise constricting his chest. He wants to believe they'll find Draco. Somehow. In some way. He's just losing hope with each day that passes. As of today, twenty-one of them have gone by since Draco'd pushed him through that damned portal. Twenty-one nights alone, twenty-one days spent with this awful heaviness weighing him down, churning in his belly, making it almost impossible to breathe. It feels like an eternity, Harry thinks, like some part of Harry's been cut away, destroyed. 

For a long moment, Kingsley studies Harry, as if he's some curious specimen on display, and Harry hates it. "You're sober," Kingsley says. "Or at least you don't reek of Ogden's today."

Harry looks up at him. "Yes." For now, at least. He'd promised, after all. 

Kingsley leans back in his chair. His gaze shifts towards Gawain. "Your opinion?"

"If he stays sober," Gawain says, "I won't be forced to put him on administrative leave." 

Harry's shoulders tense. It's not as if he hadn't known these discussions were happening. He'd just thought he could pretend they weren't. 

Kingsley rubs his chin. There's a bit of dark stubble on it; Harry wonders if Kingsley had forgotten his shaving charms this morning. "If you want to help stop the Registry," he says to Harry, "you have to stay out of the bottle. Gawain and I've protected you as best we can in recent weeks. Young Malfoy as well. But there's not much more we can do."

And Harry knows that's true. Draco's disappearance hasn't made the papers yet. It's better that way; there's more room for diplomatic manoeuvring without the _Prophet_ involved, and to be honest, Harry doesn't want Draco brought into their coverage of the Registry any more than has already happened. He chews on his lip, his gaze fixed on the gilded bust of Merlin that sits on the edge of Kingsley's desk. The ancient wizard just regards him thoughtfully, calmly. Harry wonders if Merlin'd been like that in life, or if the power that had burned through him had felt like this, something hot and prickly beneath his skin, always present, never giving him rest. 

Perhaps that's just Harry. 

"I'll be fine," Harry says, and it's just as much to himself as it is to Kingsley and Gawain. "I'm not drinking." He won't let himself think about the bottle downstairs, tucked away behind the file jackets in his lower desk drawer. No matter how much his body craves it. He looks up at Kingsley, meets those dark brown eyes evenly. "I need to do what I can to help."

"Right then." Kingsley pushes his chair back and stands. He walks over to the window, looks down at the Atrium below. "I'll make arrangements with Perkins for you to address the Wizengamot. You held some sway in the hearings eight years ago. I hope some of that influence remains."

 _And that you haven't squandered it all these past few weeks,_ Harry knows he means. But he manages to nod, and to say, "Thank you." 

Kingsley looks back at Harry; his hands are clasped behind his back, his face is stern but gentle. In this moment he reminds Harry of Albus Dumbledore in the months before he died, and that thought hurts more than Harry would have imagined after all these years. "We'll find him, Harry," Kingsley says, "but we can't do that if you're not in control of your magic." His brow wrinkles. "You can't be causing random fires in the Ministry when you lose your temper."

"I know." Harry pulls at the cuffs of his sleeves, twisting the edge of one around his thumb. The mark on his skin is hot, inflamed. He can feel it through the thin cotton. He wonders what Kingsley would say if Harry showed it to him, but that's an awful idea and Harry's not that thick. Not yet at least. 

Another glance is exchanged between Kingsley and Gawain, and Harry doesn't like that. He likes it even less when Gawain turns to him and says, "Bertie's going to be working with you. He's had experience helping Aurors whose magic has gone a bit off--"

Harry stiffens in his seat. "I don't need remedial magical work."

"No one said you do." Gawain's voice is sharp, commanding. "But you're obviously struggling, and Kingsley and I would wager this isn't something new for you."

At that, Harry looks away. "No," he says after a moment. He pleats his sleeve between his thumb and forefinger. It's not entirely untrue, after all. "It's cropped up from time to time since the war."

He doesn't add that Freddie thinks it's a manifestation of his trauma. There's only so much he wants to reveal to his superiors, after all. 

But Gawain just nods. "And you've been in the field more this summer. You didn't have as many problems when you were on diplomatic assignments."

"No," Harry says again. He looks down at his hands. His fingernails are ragged; he's been chewing them down for the past few weeks, something he hadn't done since the last year of the war when he'd been on the run with Ron and Hermione. It's how he deals with his anxiety, biting them down to the quick, almost without thought. 

Gawain's touch on his arm is careful, gentle. "You'll be all right, Harry. But Bertie knows how to handle this sort of thing. You may think you're the first Auror to have problems like this crop up with your magic, but you're not. What we ask of you lot is difficult, and we've ways to help you when you need--"

"What if I don't?" Harry knows he sounds belligerent and ungrateful, but he can't help himself. "I'm not bloody broken--"

"You're going to be working with Bertie," Gawain says, and there's no use arguing. Not when Gawain takes that particular tone. "I'll have him make the arrangements with you later, but if I find out you're skiving off on him, there'll be hell to pay. Do I make myself clear, Inspector?"

Harry draws in an uneven breath. "Perfectly," he says, his voice tight and thin, and he pushes himself out of his chair. He has to get out of here before he causes yet another incident. "Permission to return to work, sir?" 

For a moment, he thinks Gawain's going to refuse. But then Kingsley gives a small nod, and Gawain sighs. "For the nonce, yes."

Before he can finish, Harry's already walking for the door, his hands shaking, his shoulders tight. He can feel Kingsley's gaze on him, boring between Harry's shoulder blades, and when Harry reaches for the doorknob, he can hear Kingsley murmur "Poor lad."

Harry slams the door shut behind him, making Michael jump in his chair. "Sorry," Harry says, but he doesn't mean it. He clenches his fists, strides out the door, his boots sinking into the thick, plush carpet. He hates this, hates all of them. His magic's thrumming beneath his skin, raw and wild, and Harry thinks about letting it loose, sending it shuddering through the corridor, over the panelled walls. 

And then he thinks of Draco, of the way Draco would roll his eyes, tell him to keep his temper in check, tell him not to give those bastards what they want, not to let them see him weak. Harry stands in front of the lift, waiting, and he closes his eyes, lets his body remember Draco's touch, feel the soft huff of Draco's exasperated laughter. _Potter, you're a fool_ , Draco would have said, and then he'd have kissed Harry, bitten his lip. _Don't let them get to you._

When the lift doors open, Harry's fingertips are brushing his mouth, a featherlight touch that makes his whole body ache for Draco. He stumbles into the empty cab, pushes the button for Level Two. 

The doors slide shut, and Harry sinks against the wall of the lift, gripping the bar along the back with two hands. The brass is cool and slick beneath his palms, and Harry breathes. Slowly. 

Inhale. 

Exhale. 

He thinks of Draco, thinks of long, pale limbs and silver-gilt hair twisted up in a knot, of quick, easy smiles and furious scowls, of cool grey eyes that can see past Harry's defences, that know the parts of Harry not even Ron and Hermione can understand. 

The lift stops, opens. Harry steps through, makes his way past the Auror bullpen, his head bent, turned away from the gazes he knows are following him. He can hear the whispers, the murmurs as he passes, but no one comes up to him. No one stops him. 

But they never do, do they?

Harry walks into the incident room. Their room, he thinks. His team's, broken and battered though they might be. Zabini looks up from the files he's been sorting through. Parkinson's already on her feet, her small leather bag in hand. When he looks at her, she gives him a faint smile. 

"Thought I'd swing by hospital for a bit," Parkinson says. She slides the strap of her bag over her head, hanging it across her small body. She's not dressed up today; she's in jeans and a simple white blouse, her hair falling loose around her shoulders. "Bring Althea a sandwich or crisps or something. The food they serve is atrocious."

Zabini snorts and flips through a file. A blue sugar quill hangs from the corner of his mouth. "It's not like Pret's haute cuisine either." 

Parkinson shrugs. "Better than bland applesauce and plain chicken." She tucks a bit of hair behind one ear. "Keen for me to bring something back for you, guv? I know you like their egg mayo."

She's trying to get him to eat, Harry knows, and something warm bubbles up in him. "Yeah," he says after a moment. "That'd be great."

"Will do." Parkinson's gaze searches Harry's face for a moment, but she doesn't say anything else. She just glances back at Zabini. "Certain you'll pass?"

"I'm fine." Zabini pulls the sugar quill from his mouth. It's half-gone, and judging from the cellophane on his desk and the blueish tinge to his lips, it's not his first of the day. "But when you get back, I'm going to make you cross-reference some of these files with me."

Parkinson just rolls her eyes. "Lazy arse." She touches Harry's arm as she passes. "All right?" she asks, and Harry nods, gives her a weak smile. 

"For now." It's the best answer he can give, and when Parkinson stops and looks at him, Harry doesn't try to hide his pain. She reaches for him, pulls him into a tight embrace. Harry only resists for a moment before he lets his arms slide around Parkinson, clinging to her. He presses his face into her hair, breathes in the faint floral scent of her perfume. He can hear the creak of Zabini's chair, and then footsteps. Still, it surprises him when he feels Zabini's arm across his shoulder, when Zabini presses his forehead to Parkinson's. 

The three of them stand there for a moment, and Harry doesn't care who might walk in the door. He's lost sight of the fact that, whilst he's grieving Draco, so are Parkinson and Zabini. Draco's been their friend since childhood, after all. 

Harry slips an arm around Zabini's waist. "We'll get him back," he says quietly, and Parkinson's soft breath is almost a sob. 

Still she nods, and Zabini's palm smoothes down Harry's back. "He wouldn't have it any other way," Zabini says, a bit roughly. "Sodding bastard, going and acting like a bloody Gryffindor." He pulls back, laughs, but his face twists in a grimace anyway. He doesn't look at Harry. "It's your influence, you know."

"Sorry." Harry squeezes Zabini's bicep. "If it makes it any better, I'll shout at him for being so bloody stupid when he gets back."

"I'm rather certain there'll be a queue for that." Parkinson gives him a watery smile. Her knuckles brush the back of Harry's hand. "But perhaps you've earned first go at him."

Harry lets her step away, drag her thumb beneath her eyes. He doesn't say anything when it comes back wet. 

"Go on to Althea," Zabini says after a moment, and he smoothes a hand over Parkinson's hair. "Poor cow's probably bored out of her mind."

Parkinson settles her bag against her hip. "I'll be back." And then she leans over, presses a kiss lightly against Harry's cheek. It takes him by surprise, and when she pulls back, there's a flush spreading across her face and she won't meet his eyes. "Just don't do anything stupid whilst I'm gone." 

She leaves before Harry can say anything. He looks at Zabini, who shrugs. "You're Draco's," Zabini says simply. "It means we own a bit of you too." His smile's thin. "Whether you like it or not, guv."

Harry wants to say something, but he doesn't know what or how, if he's honest. So he manages a gruff, "Thanks," before fleeing to his office. He leaves the door open, just enough. It makes him feel less alone, less isolated.

Zabini doesn't seem to mind. He settles back to his work, but Harry can tell by the hunch of his shoulders that he's not as unruffled as he might want to seem. Draco being gone is affecting all of them, Harry realises, and, as awful as it may be, there's a certain strange comfort in knowing he's not going through this by himself. 

The clock on Harry's wall ticks forward. One more moment. One more breath. That's all Harry has to do, that's all he needs to get through. And one day those moments and breaths will collect, and Harry will look up and Draco will be walking through that door, as if nothing were wrong. 

And really, Harry has to believe that. He hasn't any other choice. 

His hand stills on the pull of his lower drawer. The bottle's back there. And Zabini'd probably keep his secret. Harry's fairly certain of that. 

But Harry can't let himself open the drawer. No matter how badly he wants to. No matter how much his mind is screaming at him, begging for just one sip, just one glass, just one chance to let go of some of this pain. 

Narcissa's voice echoes in his head. _Draco would never forgive me if I let you sink into this sort of squalour._ Harry knows she's right. Draco would be furious with him for giving in, for numbing himself. 

Harry's hand slips off the drawer. He breathes in, and it's a rough, ragged sound that he's certain Zabini can hear. He closes his eyes, holds himself still. Thinks of Draco. 

The roil inside of him quiets, and for a moment Harry almost thinks he can _feel_ Draco, can sense that familiar brush of Draco's mind against his. It fades. A memory, perhaps. Nothing more. 

Harry opens his eyes. 

Moment by moment, breath by breath, he tells himself.

And so, calmer than he's been in days, Harry reaches for a file and opens it.

No matter what, he'll go on. Draco truly will never forgive him if he doesn't.

***

Althea's dozing when Pansy slips into her ward, a bag from Pret in hand. Pansy doesn't want to wake her, so she settles into the chair beside the bed, setting the bag on the floor. She wonders where Mitchell's at; this is the first time she's stopped by when he hasn't been hovering next to his daughter's bedside.

Pansy studies Althea's pale face in the soft light from the window near the bed. It's gaunter than it'd been before she'd been admitted. St Mungo's food really isn't agreeing with her, Pansy thinks. There are dark circles shadowing Althea's eyes, and Pansy still isn't used to Althea's hair being shorn short. It looks oddly good on her, though, if you don't pay attention to the shagginess of Pansy's haphazard trim. Althea's long face looks almost elegant, the delicate shells of her ears exposed, along with the length of her neck. Pansy's stomach flips a bit, her breath catching. It's horrible of her, she thinks, to be fancying someone who's tucked away in hospital, but she can't help herself. 

To be honest, Pansy's not certain what she's feeling. It's muddled and complicated, and she doesn't quite understand it. Particularly since she'd received a text on her mobile early this morning from Tony's number. It hadn't been much, just a quick _thinking of you--can we meet up soon_ that had sent a shiver through her body as she'd read it in bed, her duvet pulled up over her shoulder, the corners of her bedroom still shadowed and dark. 

She hasn't answered back. She doesn't know what to say. It's never a quick meetup with Tony, is it? There's been so much history between them, and Tony's both easy and not at the same time. But it doesn't stop the fact that she cares about him. Perhaps even loves him in her own fucked-up way. 

And then there's Althea. Stubborn, infuriating, complex Althea, who'd hated Pansy's best friend until recently, who'd been a complete bitch to Pansy for most of the years they'd been on the force together. But Pansy knows what this fluttery feeling is deep inside of her, even if she's never experienced it with a girl before. She wants Althea, wants to know what it'd feel like to kiss her, to touch her, to have Althea's fingers buried in her body. 

Warmth spreads across Pansy's cheeks. What does that make her, she wonders, that she's drawn to two people, so very different--and yet, maybe not that far apart, if one thinks about it. Neither Althea nor Tony are particularly kind people, nor soft. They're determined, they're protective, they're utterly exasperating at times. And Pansy finds them both fascinating. 

Her mother would be horrified, Pansy's certain, although it'd be more of a question of whether it'd be worse for Pansy to choose Tony, with all the baggage he brings with his family, or Althea, who hasn't a single connection to Camilla's faith nor a prick to boot. Honestly, Pansy thinks Camilla would be more annoyed by the loss of potential grandchildren than anything else. Then again, with Tony, she'd have to share them with Michal Goldstein, and that might be worse. 

Pansy reaches over, brushes Althea's hair back from her forehead. It's a light touch, but it's enough to make Althea's eyes flutter open, make Althea turn her head Pansy's way. She blinks slowly, once, twice, and Pansy can see the moment Althea comes back to consciousness, the moment she realises Pansy's beside her. A smile creases her face, warm and open, and it nearly takes Pansy's breath away again. 

"Hullo," Althea manages to say, although her voice is a bit croaky. She clears her throat, stretches a bit. She's not wearing a bra beneath her crimson t-shirt; her nipples press against the thin cotton. "I didn't expect you to come by."

"Thought you might like a bit of tuna and cucumber," Pansy says, and she digs down in the Pret bag for the sandwich, unwrapping it before she sets it down on the tray that floats above Althea's hospital bed. "Your favourite, right?"

Althea's eyebrows go up. "You're amazing." She's already reaching for half the sandwich. Her eyes close when she takes a bite. "Brilliant," she says through a mouthful of bread, and when she swallows, her eyes flutter open again, and she looks over at Pansy with a wide smile. "I've been starving since brekkers."

Pansy wrinkles her nose. "Bad eggs and toast again?"

"Burnt toast," Althea says, taking another bite of her sandwich. "Eggs were edible, but only just barely."

They sit in comfortable silence for a moment as Althea eats her sandwich, stuffing it down as if she hasn't eaten in days. And she might not have, Pansy thinks. Or not much, at least. Pansy frowns. She'll have to have words again with the ward sister. 

"Where's your father?" Pansy asks finally, as Althea's brushing crumbs from her bedsheet. 

Althea cuts a sideways look at her. She hesitates before she says, "I sent him out to Waterstones to pick up a book or two. He's been fretting over me today." 

"Oh." Pansy knows what that means. She's spent enough time around MItchell Whitaker to recognise some of the tension between father and daughter. As much as they love each other, Mitchell's protectiveness starts to annoy Althea after a while, and he hates it when she starts to push him away. Pansy thinks some of it has to do with Mitchell's guilt at abandoning his daughter for a bottle or twenty of alcohol when she needed him the most, but he hasn't yet adjusted to the idea that Althea's a grown woman now, one who can stand on her own two feet. 

Well. Most of the time. 

Pansy gives Althea a worried frown. "He's only going to Waterstones then?"

"He promised." Althea bites her lip, but she looks resigned. "If he has a drink, there's nothing I can do about that."

And really, despite her worries, Pansy doesn't think Mitchell will. Not when Althea's still in hospital. He's been too worried about his daughter to think of that in recent days. Not to mention, if he does do something so utterly stupid, Pansy intends to have words with him. She's not Camilla Hirsch Parkinson's daughter for nothing, after all. Pansy looks over at Althea, takes in the furrow in her brow. She wants to make that go away. "So when are they letting you escape from here? Any word yet from the Healers?"

That makes Althea smile; her whole face lights up. "By the end of the week is the latest. Mickelson's finally caved, seeing as my coordination's better. Look." Althea holds a finger out, nearly hitting Pansy's cheek in the process, then she brings it back to touch the tip of her nose. "Practically perfect."

Pansy beams at her. "That's brilliant." And it is, really. It means Althea's brain is healing up. "How's the fogginess?"

"Comes and goes." Althea winces as she shifts in the bed, and Pansy stands up, helps her get her pillows readjusted behind her. "I won't be away from the Ministry much longer."

And that might be a bit over-optimistic, Pansy thinks, but she'll never say that to Althea. She knows getting back to work is important to Althea, that she needs that structure of their job to help her feel as if her whole life hasn't been turned topsy-turvy by all of this. 

Except it has. For all of them. 

Pansy turns away, trying to hide the pain she knows must be evident on her face by the way Althea looks at her. She picks up the pitcher of water that's on the side table and starts to pour a glass for Althea. Her hand only shakes a bit. 

"Is the guv all right?" Althea asks, her voice quiet. 

Pansy stills, the water splashing over her fingers before she notices. She catches herself, sets the pitcher back down. "Drink this," she says, and she hands the small glass to Althea, who takes it, but just cups it in her hands. "Go on then." Pansy narrows her eyes at Althea, a perfect imitation of her own mother, and Althea lifts the glass to her lips, takes a sip whilst Pansy dries her wet fingers on a scrap of cloth folded on the side table. 

"You didn't answer," Althea says after a moment, and Pansy looks back at her. Althea's watching her, a sober expression on her face. 

And Pansy doesn't know what to say. She sits again, perched on the edge of the chair, and she sighs. "He came into work today," she says after a moment. "He didn't smell like firewhisky."

"That's an improvement." Althea's gaze is fixed on Pansy's face. Pansy wants to turn away, wants to hide from those dark, knowing eyes. 

"Better than before," Pansy says. She tries to smile, but she can't quite manage. She falls silent, instead, hoping Althea'll drop the subject. 

She doesn't. "I know it's hard for you," Althea says. "Not knowing where Malfoy--"

"I'm fine." Pansy's voice is sharper than she intends it to be. She doesn't want to talk about Draco. Not right now. Not here. Pansy can't even think about it all when she's alone; it's too much for her to process without falling apart. And Pansy can't do that. Not with Althea in hospital and Potter perched on an alcoholic ledge. Not to mention her mother leaving her father. Someone has to be the one who takes care of them all, who keeps them afloat. Pansy's willingly taken that on. If nothing else, it gives her something to do. Something else to focus on instead of these fears that twist through her gut, make her worry about everyone she loves. 

"You're not," Althea says, and she reaches out, catches Pansy's hand with her own. Her fingers are thinner than they were before; they feel fragile in a way, far more delicate than Pansy remembers them being as they curl around her own. Althea squeezes lightly. "You don't always have to be fine."

Pansy looks away, but she doesn't pull back from Althea's touch. The warmth of her hand is oddly calming; Pansy finds herself clutching Althea's fingers tightly as she draws in an unsteady breath. "But I do," she says after a moment. "I…" She trails off, uncertain of how to put what she's feeling into words. 

"Malfoy's one of your best friends," Althea says. "You have to be worried."

"I am." Pansy watches as Althea's thumb rubs a small circle over the knuckle of her middle finger. It feels nice, she thinks. "But what I feel? It's not like it is for the guv. I don't…" She bites her lip, looks down the empty ward. "I can't have that sort of grief," she says finally. "That's for Potter to feel, not me. I'm just Draco's friend--"

"Since childhood." Althea gives her an even look. "That means something."

And Pansy can't argue that. She pulls her hand away; she instantly misses Althea's touch. "But it's different," she says. "I don't have the right to be…" She shrugs, thinks of how miserable and unhappy the guv is. "Like that." 

"Bollocks," Althea says bluntly, and Pansy looks over at her in surprise. Althea shifts in her bed, pats the empty space beside her. "Get over here."

"Have you lost your mind?" Pansy gives her an incredulous look before glancing back at the door. "If the ward sister came in--"

Althea just waves her hand. "I don't care. You're upset, and I can tell, so shut it and climb in."

It's an awful idea. Still Pansy's tempted. It reminds her of how she'd curl up on Daisy's bed when they were younger and she'd been in tears, her sister draping an arm over Pansy's shoulder, playing with her hair until Pansy settled down again. Pansy misses that. Misses Daisy, wherever the hell she's run to. Pansy looks at Althea who's just watching her calmly, waiting. 

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Pansy says. She kicks her heels off, tucks them beneath the chair. She's lost the bloody plot, she tells herself, but she crawls up onto the hospital bed anyway, being careful not to dislodge any of the tubes and wires attached to Althea's body. It's not a lot of space, but it's enough, and there's something oddly comforting about being pressed up against Althea's side, smelling the soft muskiness of her body. Althea smoothes Pansy's hair back from her forehead, and Pansy exhales, letting herself relax into Althea. 

"Better?" Althea murmurs, and Pansy hesitates, then nods. 

It is. But it hurts too, in a way Pansy hadn't expected. Lying here, feeling the soft, careful stroke of Althea's fingertips, all the feelings Pansy's been keeping at bay start to swell up, and she tries to push them back, tries to ignore them, tries to count her breaths, slow and even. Tries to control herself, to remind herself that she's a Parkinson, for the love of Circe. Stiff upper lip and all that rubbish.

None of it works. 

She feels the hot burn of tears as they leak from her eyes, wetting her lashes. Althea's fingers are light against Pansy's temple, and it's the gentleness of her touch that breaks Pansy. The tears come faster, spilling down Pansy's cheeks, and she hates herself for giving in to this, for letting herself be this vulnerable in this public space, where anyone could walk in and see her lying here, preseed against Althea. It's so very unSlytherin of her, but Pansy's so damned tired of carrying this weight on her shoulders, tired of pretending she's not terrified for Draco, terrified for her sister, her mother, herself. She lets herself crack open, lets herself feel safe here beside Althea Whitaker of all people, lets her own fear bubble up between those seismic shifts in her soul, her fear about losing everyone she cares about.

Including Althea. 

"You could have died," Pansy whispers, and her fingers grip Althea's t-shirt, the cotton soft against her skin. "You could have, and Draco could be dead--"

"But I'm not," Althea says, and she touches Pansy's jaw, lifts her face up just enough to see Althea looking down at her, something deep and warm in her gaze. "I'm not, and he's not. He wouldn't dare, not when he knows you'd come after him."

Pansy laughs at that, but it's swallowed in a ragged exhale that turns into a cough. She wipes the back of her hand against her cheeks. Tearing up first with the guv, and now this? Draco'd mock her terribly, she thinks, and then she realises he wouldn't. He'd have pulled her into his arms and told her she was being a twat, then he'd have held her whilst she cried on him. 

The way he had so many times during the war.

"I miss him," Pansy manages to say. "And I'm so fucking frightened…" She trails off, unable to say what she's thinking. What she's afraid of. It's almost as if she might speak it in reality, and Pansy couldn't bear that. "He'll be all right," she says, because she has to believe it's true. 

"He's a Malfoy," Althea says with a small smile. "Of course he will." She brushes a knuckle across Pansy's cheek, tucks a lock of Pansy's hair behind her ear. "But you have to let yourself feel sometimes. Believe me."

And Pansy knows Althea's thinking of her mother. She can tell by the way Althea glances away, the way she swallows, her jaw tightening for just a moment. "You didn't?" Pansy asks, and Althea looks back at her. 

"Sometimes I still don't," Althea admits, and her smile is half-hearted. Unhappy. "But I'm trying."

Perhaps, in the end, that's all any of them can do, Pansy thinks. Just try to feel. It's an odd concept to her, one she's not comfortable with. But she hasn't a choice, she thinks. The feelings are going to overwhelm her no matter what. It might be easier to give into them with someone she trusts nearby. 

So Pansy gives in, lets her fear and her grief wash over her. For Draco. For her sister. For her parents. For the guv. All of them, tangled together in Pansy's heart. She leans her head against Althea's shoulder. "It hurts," she manages to say. "Too much."

"It's all right," Althea murmurs, and her lips brush Pansy's forehead, soft and warm, and that touch is what cracks Pansy open. "You're safe with me. I promise."

And Pansy lets herself cry.

***

When Blaise Floos into his flat that evening, Jake's sat on the sofa alongside Tom Graves, their heads bent over papers spread across the low coffee table. The moment Blaise steps through, however, Graves sits back, pulling the papers together in a smooth, practised motion that makes Blaise quite aware that he'd rather Blaise not catch a glimpse of any of them.

Sodding wanker. 

Blaise doesn't say anything, even as Jake stands. Instead he drops his satchel beside the hearth, then walks over to the tall cabinet in which he keeps his spirits hidden away and pours himself a good three fingers of his best whisky, knocking it back in two swallows. 

"You're back early," Jake says from behind him, and Blaise glances over his shoulder as he fills another glass. 

"If you consider half-seven early." Blaise looks pointedly at the clock on the hearth. He lifts his glass to his lips. "I didn't realise you had a meeting." And that annoys him. This isn't Jake's flat, for Circe's sake. Blaise doesn't want him doing business with Tom fucking Graves here. Not without Blaise around. He doesn't know why; it just irks him. Blaise doesn't trust Graves, whatever Jake might say. If it hadn't been for the bastard, Jake wouldn't have gone to Thibodaux, and Seven-Four-Alpha wouldn't have followed. Draco'd still be here, and even though Blaise knows it's unreasonable of him, he's more than will to throw blame for Draco's disappearance at Tom Graves' feet. 

Graves is shoving the papers into his own satchel. "We lost track of time," he says, and he gives Jake an even look before turning that charming smile of his on Blaise, who just returns it coolly. He'd grown up in Slytherin, after all. Charm doesn't impress him very much. Graves clears his throat. "I should get home before Mel sends your Aurors out to find me."

Blaise stays silent. He doesn't even take the hand Graves offers him as he steps towards the Floo. Graves seems a bit taken aback, but he recovers, clapping Jake on the shoulder instead. "We'll talk later, all right?" The cheer in Graves' voice is forced; it doesn't reach his eyes. He takes a pinch of Floo powder from the bowl on the hearth and tosses it into the flames. "I'll let you know how your suggestion pans out."

"You know how to reach me." Jake waits until Graves has stepped into the Floo, the green fire swirling him away before he turns to Blaise. "You don't have to be rude." 

"And you don't have to take over my fucking flat," Blaise snaps back. He looks Jake up and down, takes in the New York Rangers t-shirt and the loose joggers that hang from Jake's hips. Not to mention Jake's rumpled hair and unshaven jaw. "Have you even bothered to change clothes since yesterday? Or are you too busy lounging about my flat, feeling sorry for your unemployed self?"

It's a low blow, and Blaise knows it. But his skin feels tight and taut and he's tired and worn out from dealing with work today. It'd been a bad Tuesday, and nothing he's managed to do has found any trace of Draco in any of the MACUSA systems. Even the ones Blaise has managed to backdoor into with Martine Boucher's unofficial help. It's like Draco's just disappeared into oblivion, and Blaise doesn't know what they're going to do next. He'd given the guv the latest report just before leaving, and it'd been hell to see Potter's face fall, his shoulders slump yet again. The guv had caught himself, tried to play it off, tried to tell Blaise they'd check again tomorrow when the databases renew overnight. But Blaise knows he's just as disheartened by Blaise's failure. Probably even more so. Blaise loves Draco like a brother, but Potter loves Draco too, perhaps more fiercely than Blaise ever could. Blaise hates letting him down. Letting them all down, really. And now Blaise just wants to lash out, wants to make someone else feel as awful as he does himself. It's not fair of him, but Blaise has never been one to privilege fairness over his own feelings. 

Jake's mouth thins, but he takes a moment before he says, his voice quiet, "I take it you had a bad day."

Blaise finishes off his whiskey and sets the glass aside. He'll take it to the kitchen later. He loosens his tie, unbuttons the first button of his shirt. The collar still feels too constricting. "Today was fine," he lies as he pulls his tie off, throws it onto the ottoman. He unbuttons the next shirt button. "What was Graves doing here?"

"He needed help with some paperwork," Jake says, and Blaise knows that's not true. Graves had looked far too shifty for that, and Jake's not meeting Blaise's eye. He's lying about something himself, and Blaise wonders if he should push harder, if he should make Jake tell him. But Blaise is exhausted, and he doesn't have it in him. If Jake wants to think Blaise is that fucking thick, then let him. 

Bastard. 

Jake runs his hands through his hair, leaving it standing on end. His t-shirt rides up; Blaise catches a glimpse of tanned skin stretched across Jake's hipbone, of dark golden hairs trailing down into the waistband of Jake's joggers. "Do you need the flat tonight?" Jake asks, almost hesitantly. "I could ask Hermione if I could camp out in her spare room." 

And Blaise doesn't want Jake to be understanding. He wants Jake to shout, wants him to push back, wants him to tell Blaise he's being ridiculous and unfair. It's stupid of him, Blaise supposes, but he wants a fucking _reaction_ from Jake. He doesn't want to be coddled, doesn't want to be handled gently. 

Doesn't want Jake to be kind. Blaise can't take sympathy right now. Not when he can't have any for himself.

"Whatever you want," Blaise says, and he walks out of the sitting room, down the hall towards the bath, loosening the buttons on his shirt as he does. He slides it off his shoulders, tosses it into the hamper behind the door before turning the sink on. He bends over it, splashing cool water over his face. It settles him a little, at least until he stands upright, wiping away the wetness with a hand towel. Jake's leaning against the door jamb, arms crossed, his brow furrowed. "What?" Blaise asks, looking at Jake's reflection in the mirror. 

"You're in a mood," Jake says. "Want to talk about it?"

Blaise doesn't answer. He walks over to the toilet, unzips his trousers, and pisses into the pristine bowl, not caring if Jake's watching him or not. It's not as if he hasn't done this before; there isn't much personal space when one's living with one's boyfriend, after all. He shakes his prick clean, then tucks it away again, pulling up the zip before he goes back to the sink and washes his hands. 

Jake sighs. "Do you want me to firecall Hermione?"

No, Blaise wants to say, but he just wipes his hands dry, then stands against the sink, his hands pressed to the cool marble countertop. His mother'd had it imported from Italy after he'd bought the flat and had decided to renovate it. The marble's a smooth, perfect white, with pale grey veins that match the grey stain on the wooden floors. His mother always was good about picking the right interior accents; bitch though she may be, her taste is most definitely impeccable. 

And Blaise feels guilty at that thought. As angry as he still is at his mother for lying to him about his father, she's not a bitch. Not to Blaise, at least. He knows she had her reasons for keeping her secrets from him. That doesn't ease the bitter hurt that lashes through Blaise each time he thinks of it, though. He wonders if he'll ever really forgive her. He'd like to think he will, but he's not certain he can. Not yet at least. 

"Hey," Jake says softly. He's looking at Blaise in the mirror. "You have to talk to me."

Blaise just shakes his head. He grips the edge of the sink with both hands, his shoulders hunched. He wants to be alone, but he also doesn't think he could bear it if Jake left him like this. 

"I won't, you asshole." 

At Jake's voice, Blaise looks up, meets Jake's gaze reflected from behind him. Jake gives him a small, faint smile. 

"You're thinking too loudly again," Jake says, and he steps into the bath, moving closer to Blaise. 

Blaise turns, his arse pressing against the counter. He's still so angry--at what or whom, he's not certain. "You can fuck off," he manages to say, but he doesn't mean it. Not really. His throat aches and he looks away, towards the glass shower and the wide, sparkling white soaking tub. 

Jake just looks at him. "You're upset," he says. "I can feel it." He reaches out, his fingers skimming Blaise's bare bicep. Blaise pulls away; Jake's hand falls to his side. He seems a bit lost. Uncertain. "What happened today?"

"Nothing." And that's the hell of it, isn't it, Blaise thinks. Nothing happened. Nothing moved forward. Nothing was accomplished. They're still in the same fucking holding pattern that they've been in since they'd tumbled through the portal three weeks ago. 

Except now Blaise has an unemployed boyfriend living with him, with no job prospects or chance to go home to New York any time soon, and Blaise has never done well with this sort of commitment, as loose as this might be between them. He closes his eyes, tries to push the panic down that's rising up in him. He swallows, then looks over at Jake. "Are the Unspeakables going to take you on again?"

Jake's silent for a moment, and then he shrugs. Glances away. "It's complicated given I'm here on political asylum. Hermione says she'll do everything she can, but my paperwork has to go through first, and Magical Immigration is dragging its feet on that."

Of course they would be. Jake's in a delicate position, and the last thing the Ministry wants to do is infuriate MACUSA. Fuck the Americans, Blaise thinks bitterly. Although he supposes it's more Aldric Yaxley who needs to be cursed, and he's a British export, now isn't he? So fuck the Brits too. Blaise rubs the back of his neck; he catches the way Jake's gaze drifts down his bare torso. Even if Blaise tells himself he doesn't care, his prick seems to. 

They look at each other for a long moment, he and Jake, and Blaise can feel the soft push of Jake's mind against his. "Don't," Blaise says, and it withdraws. 

"I'm sorry." Jake sighs. He looks frustrated, and Blaise feels a flicker of empathy. He knows he can be difficult, knows that he's acting out because he's hurting and lost. But he can't stop himself. Not now. It's as if it's all twisted up inside of him, this pain and this guilt, prickling across his skin, and he's no idea how to get it out. 

He wonders if he should just drop his defences, let Jake into his mind, let him see everything, feel all of this unhappiness. But that thought terrifies Blaise. There are parts of himself he doesn't want Jake to know. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Not to mention the secrets he needs to keep. About himself, about his family. 

About Jake. 

Where does that leave them, Blaise wonders. He doesn't know how this is going to end. His mother's story went poorly. Mate or not, Blaise doesn't expect this to have a happily-ever-after either. Those sorts of endings never seem to work for Zabinis. He looks away from Jake. 

"I'm tired," Blaise says, and it's true. He's had a long day. He wants to sleep; despite missing lunch, he doesn't even care about food. He hasn't for days, really. It all tastes dry and dull to him, no matter what he eats. 

"Don't shut me out." Jake's voice is soft. "I know that's what you're doing, and I hate it."

Blaise licks his lip, swallows. "I'm not." The words stick in the back of his throat. He has to force them out. 

Jake moves closer. "Bullshit." He reaches out, presses his palm against Blaise's chest. Blaise closes his eyes at the touch, at the feel of Jake's fingers splayed across his skin. "You're lying to me."

The feel of Jake's hand is almost electric; Blaise's heart beats rapidly. "You're lying as well," he whispers, and he looks at Jake. "What are you and Tom Graves doing?"

For a moment, he thinks Jake isn't going to answer, and then Jake's fingertips smooth across Blaise's chest, tracing small circles that curve around his nipples, across his collar bone. A shiver of want goes through Blaise; his prick swells against his trousers. 

Jake watches him, then he drags his thumb along the curve of Blaise's throat. "You don't want to know," he says finally. 

"It's not good, is it?" Blaise asks. He doesn't want to hear the answer. 

All Jake does is shake his head. They stand together, inches apart from each other, Jake's palm cupping Blaise's jaw. "Do you trust me?" Jake asks after a moment. 

Blaise wants to say no, but he can't. So he nods instead, his gaze fixed on Jake's face. He does. He always will, he thinks. However stupid that makes him, and whatever idiotic plan Jake's concocted. 

Jake leans in, and he lets his mouth move against Blaise's, the faintest, lightest touch of lips and breath. It sends a shudder through Blaise's entire body. "I'm doing what I have to," he says. "Just like you are with Malfoy." His hands settle on Blaise's hips, and fuck but it's been too long, Blaise thinks. He's kept Jake at arm's length for days now, since he'd come back from Bertie Aubrey's house on Friday night. He still hasn't told Jake about that. Blaise isn't certain he intends to. It'd been difficult to sit there, to hear Bertie tell him about his father in ways his mother never had. 

It still hurts when he thinks about it. 

Blaise looks away. He feels raw and exposed in ways he doesn't like. It's never been like this between him and a lover before. Blaise has never wanted to be wrapped up in someone else. Sometimes he'd wished for it, sure, especially when Draco and the guv had been so caught up in one another, but the reality's different. Terrifying. He doesn't want Jake to see him like this.

"Stop thinking," Jake says, and then he's reaching for Blaise, pulling him closer, wrapping those long, muscled arms around him. Blaise leans his head on Jake's shoulder. "It's going to be all right."

"You don't know that," Blaise says. He hates the way his voice cracks. He presses his face against Jake's t-shirt. It smells like he used a cleaning charm on it, but it's musty still. The first time he'd seen Jake wear it was that last night in Thibodaux before all this had gone tits up. Now he never seems to take it off. It's a reminder of home, Blaise thinks, and there's part of him that understands that. At least a little.

Jake's hands smooth down Blaise's back, settle in the dip above the curve of his arse. "It has to be." 

And Blaise knows Jake's lost so much himself. His brother. His country. His home. His life. Blaise has only lost his best friend and his sense of who he is. Perhaps that's not worse. Or perhaps it is in its own way. 

He leans his forehead against Jake's shoulder. "Just tell me you're not going to do something utterly idiotic with Graves."

Jake's silent, and then he sighs. "Would it help if I lied?"

"Probably." It won't, but Blaise wants to pretend. At least for a little bit. 

"Then I'm not." Jake turns his head, catches Blaise's mouth with his. It's a long kiss, careful and almost sweet. "Let me have you," Jake whispers against Blaise's lips. 

Blaise nods, and Jake's hands are lifting him then, helping Blaise wrap his legs around Jake's narrow hips. Blaise can feel the swell of Jake's prick against his belly, and his stomach lurches in anticipation, a prickle of desire spreading across his skin. 

"I don't want to think right now," Blaise admits, and then Jake's carrying him through the doorway, stumbling the few steps towards the bedroom. Blaise needs this, needs to feel something that isn't this dull, heavy ache inside of him. 

And when Jake drops him onto the bed, Blaise's hands are already fumbling with his trousers, pulling them open, pushing them down his hips. He kicks his shoes off; they land somewhere on the floor with two soft, quick thuds. "Suck me," he says, a bit breathlessly, and Jake bends over him, his mouth pressing tiny, quick kisses to Blaise's belly, his fingers hooking in the waistband of Blaise's pants, tugging them down over the swell of Blaise's prick. 

Blaise tangles his fingers in Jake's hair, arching up as Jake's mouth closes around the head of his cock, his tongue flicking lightly against Blaise's slit. He needs this. Oh, Circe, but he needs this, and Blaise moans as Jake takes him in deeper, his cheeks hollowing out as his mouth slides down Blaise's shaft. 

Jake looks glorious, all tanned skin and dark gold curls, his lips stretched around the width of Blaise's prick, Blaise's trousers and pants shoved halfway down his thighs, a wrinkled tangle of white cotton and black twill. Jake watches Blaise, presses his hands against Blaise's hips, holding him down against the mattress, and Blaise can see the flush starting to rise on Jake's throat, that sure sign that Jake wants Blaise, that he needs to touch him, to fuck him. Blaise wants to push his hips up, wants to fuck Jake's throat, wants to see Jake's eyes go dark with arousal. 

Instead Jake pulls his mouth away, letting Blaise's cock slide out of his mouth with a soft, wet sound. His fingers brush against the base of Blaise's prick. "You need a good fuck, you know," he says, in that soft, slow drawl of his, and Blaise's skin feels as if it's on fire when Jake drags his fingertips up over the curve of Blaise's cock, pressing the slick head against Blaise's belly. He pulls at Blaise's foreskin, sliding it up over his slit, pinching it lightly together, before pushing it back down to expose the soft, swollen glans, slick and shining in the overhead light. "God, you're gorgeous." Jake smooths his finger over Blaise's slit before lifting it to his mouth and sucking the wetness from it, his eyes fixed on Blaise's face. Blaise's prick twitches at the sight. "A goddamn handful when you want to be, but still fucking gorgeous."

"You're not as easy as you think either," Blaise says, a bit petulantly, and he hooks a heel behind Jake's arse. "Now are you going to fuck me or not?" 

Jake's smile is slow and more than a bit wicked. "Baby, you're going to be begging me to let you come." He leans back, pulls Blaise's trousers completely off, his pants along with them, his socks following. Blaise stretches himself out across the grey coverlet, hands over his head, thighs spread wide, letting Jake look at him, his long and lean body laid out before him. 

"All right then?" Blaise asks, his voice low, and Jake's tongue darts across his bottom lip as he nods. 

"Not bad." Jake pulls his t-shirt off, throws it aside. Blaise loves this view of him, of the solid muscles of Jake's chest, the pink-brown nipples that stand hard and pebbled in the cool of Blaise's bedroom. Jake's prick is hard already, pushing against the loose cotton of his joggers, the waistband pulling away from his flat belly just enough for Jake to slide his fingers in. They curl around his cock, and, his gaze not leaving Blaise's face, Jake wanks himself, ever so slowly, his fist pressing up against his joggers, his knuckles and prick moving beneath the cotton. Jake's chest heaves; he reaches up with his other hand and starts to play with one of his nipples, letting Blaise watch him. "So," he says after a moment, and there's a rasp to his voice, "what would make you not think? Me nailing that pretty ass of yours to the mattress, or you riding my dick until you're screaming?"

And that sends a shiver through Blaise's body. "Both have their appeal," he says. 

"Yeah?" Jake's hand is moving faster beneath his joggers. There's a wet patch growing on the cotton where his cock is pressed into it. "Better make a decision."

Blaise only hesitates a moment. He reaches down, slides a hand beneath each knee, then pulls his legs up, his arse exposed. He can already feel his hole puckering and twitching in anticipation. "Fuck me," he says roughly, and it's then that Jake's eyes go wide and dark, his pupils blown the way Blaise had wanted them to. 

"Jesus," Jake breathes out, and he's pushing his joggers down his thick thighs, his prick bobbing red and swollen and wet in front of him. He moves around the bed, fumbling for the lube in the side table where they'd left it last, and then he's back, crawling across the bed, the mattress shifting as he settles on his knees between Blaise's thighs.

The oil's slick and cool when Jake dribbles it down Blaise's crease, and Blaise hisses softly. Jake's fingers follow, thick and rough, smoothing the oil over Blaise's skin, pressing against the firm ring of Blaise's hole. Blaise digs his own fingers into the soft skin beneath his knees, willing his body to relax, to take Jake into him. One finger slides in, then the second, and Blaise feels Jake stretching him, twisting a knuckle deeper into Blaise's body. Blaise tries not to be embarrassed. He hasn't prepped for this, hasn't said the proper spells. He's glad he skipped lunch, though. It helps somewhat. 

"Relax," Jake says, and there's a tinge of amusement in his voice. "You start thinking and you clamp up tighter than a bull's ass in fly time."

Blaise pushes his thighs wider and glares down at Jake. "I'd rather prefer that you _not_ compare my arse to a bovine's."

Jake just laughs, and his fingers go deeper, taking Blaise's breath away. "If it helps, yours is a hell of a lot prettier." He twists his hand again, and Blaise groans, his thighs shaking beneath his grip. Another finger slides into him. Jake's watching as he pushes it past Blaise's entrance, his lip caught between his teeth. "Goddamn," he murmurs. "I could do this to you all fucking night."

And Blaise would let him. He feels his body adjust around Jake's fingers, feels it relax, take Jake in. His mind settles; the only thing he cares about is the steady, even push of Jake's hand against his arse, the crook of his fingers deep inside Jake. "Fuck," Blaise whispers, and he lets his head fall back against the bed, lets the sensations start to overtake him. 

Nothing feels like this. The way Jake can make Blaise's body burn--no one's been able to do that before. Not the way Jake can. Blaise feels his defences start to seep away, and he doesn't care. Not as long as Jake keeps doing this, keeps making his body respond like this. Merlin. Blaise feels alive again, the grimness receding into the shadows of his mind. He needs Jake, needs to feel, needs to let himself go. His legs slip from his grasp, feet landing on the mattress, his thighs pushing wider, his arse pressing up against the slow movements of Jake's hand.

And then Jake's fingers are gone, sliding out of Blaise with a slick pop. Blaise starts to protest, but Jake lays a palm against Blaise's belly. "Give me a second," Jake says gently, and Blaise's hole aches for him, quivers with need. 

"Please," Blaise chokes out, and he can hear the click of the lube phial. He looks down the length of his body; Jake's fingers are slicking his prick, the ruddy head sliding between them with each quick stroke, 

"Almost there," Jake says, his voice still soft, and then he shifts, the mattress moving beneath them ever so slightly as he positions himself between Blaise's legs. He leans over; Blaise can feel the press of Jake's prick against his arse, the weight of Jake's body as he arches over his, elbows on either side of Blaise's chest.. Jake's mouth brushes Blaise's. "You ready for this?"

Blaise just nods, and then he feels Jake reach down between them, position his prick right at Blaise's entrance. Blaise exhales, and Jake presses into him, the slow stretch of Blaise's body around his cock almost excruciating. And then he's inside of Blaise, and he turns his head, catching Blaise's lips with his. The kiss is long and sweet, and Blaise wraps his arms around Jake's shoulders, opening himself to Jake's mouth and tongue. Giving in, he thinks, but it's his choice, his need. 

They move together. Slowly at first, their bodies pressing together, Blaise's prick caught between them, swollen and hard as it rubs against the firm stretch of Jake's belly. And then Blaise's breath catches, his fingers dig into Jake's shoulders, and Jake's thrusting into him harder, leaning back to look down at Blaise, and Blaise can't think of anything accept the way this feels between them, the way his body arches and trembles against Jake's. 

Everything comes down to this moment. Blaise's world is nothing but a breath, a thrust, the shimmering, painful spark of pleasure that dances across his skin, through his muscles, swelling higher and higher until he's gasping with the thrill of it, his fingers slipping across Jake's sweaty, flushed skin, their soft groans crescendoing into quick, desperate cries as their bodies move in tandem, faster now, eager thrusts that echo wetly in the silence of the room. 

"More," Blaise manages to say. "Oh fuck, _more_." 

And Jake complies, his hips slamming against Blaise's, his face flushed and damp as he looks down at Blaise, his curls catching on his forehead, his neck corded from the effort of fucking Blaise. 

Blaise feels spread wide, feels so open, so filled, so exposed to this man, to this irritating, exasperating American whom he can't seem to live without. He can feel the brush of Jake's mind against his again, and this time he lets him in, lets Jake feel his joy, his need, his want. And Jake kisses him, pressing deeper into Blaise, fucking him harder, and Blaise can feel Jake's pleasure, feel how much Jake loves fucking him, feel how much Jake wants to give this to him. It's exhilarating, and Blaise pushes himself into Jake's thrusts, the bed shaking beneath them, the headboard banging against the wall as their cries grow louder. 

The world shivers and trembles around him, a long, gasping breath, and then it implodes, pushing Blaise up into a spiral of pleasure, and he comes with shout, warm spurts of spunk spattering across his belly, smearing over Jake's with the next quick thrust. 

Jake looks down at him. "I--" he starts to say, his eyes half glazed over. His hips slow.

"Don't stop," Blaise chokes out, and he grabs Jake's shoulders, his fingernails digging into Jake's back. "In me." He draws in a shaking breath. "Come in me."

"Fuck." Jake throws his head back and slams into Blaise harder. It's all Blaise can do to hold on whilst Jake's prick ravages him, pounds him into the mattress. He can feel the moment Jake gives in to the sensations, the moment it becomes too hard for Jake to hold back, to stave off his body. Jake arches into Blaise, his teeth biting his lip, his eyes closed, and his whole body shudders, spasms. He comes almost without a sound, with just a soft, explosive huff, a strangled half-gasp that's swallowed by his next breath, and then he collapses against Blaise, his body shaking beneath Blaise's touch. 

They lie silently, tangled together, Jake's face pressed against the curve of Blaise's throat. Blaise feels loose, drifting. He cards his fingers through Jake's hair, and the thudding of his heart settles. 

"Goddamn," Jake says against Blaise's skin. The soft pressure of his lips makes Blaise's body tremble again. Jake shifts, slides out of Blaise. There's a slickness between Blaise's arsecheeks, a sticky mess of oil and come. It'll stain the coverlet, he thinks, but he doesn't care. He'll buy a bloody new one if he has to. 

Jake rolls off of Blaise, flops onto his back. His chest is still heaving, his breath still uneven. He looks over at Blaise. "Better?"

Blaise nods. There's part of him that hates to admit it, but he does feel less twisted up in himself. He rubs his hands across his face, sliding them up over his close-cropped hair. "Thanks," he says finally. There's a strange awkwardness settling across him now, and he can't really look at Jake. "I should clean up."

Jake catches his hand as he starts to sit up. "I know this is hard for you," he says. "Malfoy's your best friend--"

"Don't, please." Blaise's voice hitches. He looks back over his shoulder at Jake. "I can't." It hurts too much to think of Draco, to wonder where he is. The only way Blaise has survived it has been to push it to the back of his mind, to focus on things he can actually do to try to find Draco. To help him. 

And those are becoming fewer and fewer these days. He closes his eyes, presses his lips together. Tries to breathe through the swell of panic. 

"You can't ignore it," Jake says, his voice quiet. His fingers are warm against Blaise's wrist. "I know it's hard for Harry, but you can't pretend you're not affected--"

Blaise pulls away. "I can't be," he says, perhaps a little too sharply. He's angry at Jake for spoiling this, for making him think again about things he'd rather not. "Someone has to be at the bloody wheel for Seven-Four-Alpha, and the guv obviously doesn't have it in him right now." 

Jake's silent for a moment. He sits up in the bed, watches as Blaise stands, heads for the door. "You can't take care of everyone, you know," he says finally, just before Blaise steps into the hallway. "Sometimes you just have to fall apart first."

"Like you have?" Blaise glances back at Jake, rumpled and naked in his bed, his knees drawn up to his chest. "Because I haven't seen you dealing with all the shit around your family, Jake. I haven't seen you fall apart about Eddie--"

"Eddie's made his choices." Jake looks away. "And he's always been a stupid goddamn son of a bitch asshole who thinks he's living a charmed life."

Blaise just gives Jake an even look. "He's not the only Durant like that," he says quietly, and then he turns on his heel and walks into the bath, closing the door behind him. 

He leans against the sink, his palms pressed to the countertop, his head bent. There's a crack in his heart, aching and sore, and he breathes out, trying to stitch it back together. He can't fall apart. He's a fucking Slytherin, for Circe's sake. It isn't done. Slytherins keep themselves together, hide their feelings. Pretend that everything will be fine. 

It's the only way Blaise had made it through the war, after all. 

Another slow breath in. Blaise lifts his head, looks at himself in the mirror. His face is drawn, weary. He wonders how life would have been different if he'd turned this damned assignment down. If he'd never joined Seven-Four-Alpha. Perhaps Draco would be safe. Perhaps Blaise wouldn't know what he does now about his father. Life would have gone on. They would have survived, all of them. 

He never would have met Jake. 

Blaise takes a step backward. Then another and another until his back hits the wall. He stares at himself, at the man he's become. He feels hollowed out. Empty. 

And he misses Draco. Misses his wit and his bite, misses his neuroses and his brilliance. He's so afraid Draco isn't coming back this time. That MACUSA's done something to Draco. Hurt him. Killed him, even. Blaise doesn't trust any of them. Not with Aldric Yaxley calling the shots. 

To be honest, Blaise doesn't know what he'll do if Draco's gone. It'd been hard enough to lose Vince in the war. That'd left a mark on their little band, one that none of them have been able to forget. To lose Draco would be unthinkable. 

Blaise isn't certain he could get over that. None of them could. Draco's always been what holds them together, always been the heart of their friendships. Without him they'd be nothing. 

He slides down the wall, his legs unable to keep him up. He's filthy and disgusting, and he can't do this any longer, he thinks. He can't keep up this facade. Can't tell himself everything will be fine. Because it might not, and Blaise doesn't know how to face that realisation. He buries his face in his hands, and he feels something inside of him break open, feels the weight of it all come crushing down over him. There's a wetness on his cheeks, smeared across his fingers, and he barely registers it as tears. 

And then Jake is there, crouched beside him, and Blaise doesn't understand how he came in, why he's there. "It's all right," Jake says softly, and he's pulling Blaise up against him, wrapping Blaise in the warmth of his arms. "I'm here. No matter what happens, I'll always be here, okay?"

Blaise lets himself crumple against Jake. Lets himself fall apart. 

"It's going to be fine," Jake whispers again, his breath soft against Blaise's cheek. "You're going to be fine. I promise you that."

Blaise prays that he's right.

***

It's late when Harry makes it back to Grimmauld Place. The lights are off; the library's dark. Kreacher's off somewhere, Harry supposes. Fuck only knows where.

He drops his satchel on the chair and turns on one of the lamps. A warm golden glow spreads across the sofa, and Harry sits, suddenly tired. 

Or perhaps not so suddenly. It's been a long day. Harry knows he could have come home earlier, but he hadn't wanted to. He'd been waiting at first for Zabini's reports, hoping that somehow something would come up in them. Even the smallest clue, anything that might give them an indication of what MACUSA's done with Draco. There's nothing, or so Zabini had said, and given the defeated set of his shoulders when he'd brought the report to Harry's office, Harry believes he'd tried his damnedest. He'd thanked Zabini, then sent him home. 

And then Harry'd spent the next two hours going through the databases himself. All to no joy. 

Harry leans forward, his elbows on his knees. He'd thought about staying in the office. Sleeping there for the night. He hates Grimmauld now, hates the silence of the house without Draco in it, hates the emptiness he feels so keenly when he's here. The only thing that had made it tolerable in recent weeks was whisky. 

And fuck but Harry still wants a glass. Terribly.

With a sigh, he pushes himself off the sofa. Walks over to the window, pulls the curtain back. Harry stares through the thick panes, looking up at the sky. The moon's nearly full; it hangs heavy and low above the London rooftops. Harry wonders where Draco is, if he can see the moon. It's stupid, he realises. If they're keeping Draco in the States, he'll be hours behind London time. He lets the curtain fall back into place.

The firewhisky's in the cabinet beside the hearth, on the other side of the bookcase. Harry finds himself in front of it, reaching out to open the heavy, carved wooden doors. The bottle's still there, only half empty. Harry licks his bottom lip. Thinks about the taste of the firewhisky, the burn of it along his throat. It'd be so easy. No one would blame him. 

Not for one glass. 

The neck of the bottle's cool against his fingertips. He lifts it out, holds it in his hands. One glass and he could sleep on the sofa. He wouldn't have to go upstairs, wouldn't have to lie alone in the bed he shares with Draco. He uncaps the bottle. Smells the rich, peaty warmth of the firewhisky. A small stream of smoke curls up from the opening, thin and grey. Harry can almost taste it on his tongue. 

He looks over at the hearth. There's a small silver frame on the mantel. Harry doesn't remember it being there before; he wonders if Kreacher'd left it there. He walks over, picks it up. It's a photo of him and Draco, smiling at each other as they lean against one another, curled together on the sofa. Harry's fingers tighten around the frame. 

Around him the house sighs and settles, a mournful whisper through the walls. 

"Is this from you?" Harry asks, and he turns, looking up at the ceiling. It's mad. Or he's mad. Of course he is. He's talking to a goddamned house, after all. "Did you leave this?"

The only answer is a soft rustle in the shadows. Then silence. 

"I miss him too." Harry's throat aches. He studies Draco's face. Brushes his thumb against Draco's cheek. He almost thinks Draco turns into the touch. "Sometimes I'm afraid I'm going to forget the little things." Harry sits on the edge of an ottoman. "The way he sounds. How much he hates mornings." He closes his eyes. "That's the worst of it, you know. Thinking that I'll wake up one day, and I won't remember the way he looked at me. Or how he took his tea." His laugh is low, quiet. "As if I could forget anything about him, though." His smile fades; his heart aches. "But what if I do?"

Harry looks down at the photo again. Draco's smiling up at him, his hair loose across his shoulders, his favourite grey cardigan wrapped around him, the one that's soft and worn, not fit for public, according to Draco, but perfect for lounging around the house on a lazy, rainy Saturday afternoon. 

And then Harry's gaze swings over to the bottle of firewhisky in his other hand. He hesitates. The pull's still there, whatever he may have promised Narcissa Malfoy. Slowly, carefully, Harry sets the bottle down. He takes a deep breath, looks back at the photograph. "I know," he murmurs to Draco. "I'm utter rubbish without you."

He stands, walks back to the hearth. A toss of Floo powder on the embers and Harry rings up the only people he wants to talk to right now. 

Ron's head appears in the fire. "Harry," he says, and he's obviously surprised. He studies Harry's face for a moment, and his own expression sobers. "What's wrong?"

Harry crouches closer to the fire. "I can't be alone." It's hard for him to get the words out. "Can I kip in your spare room tonight?"

And Ron doesn't hesitate. "I'll change the sheets, mate," he says. "Come on through."

His head disappears. The flames are still glowing green. Harry pauses, looks back at the bottle of firewhisky, sat on the floor beside the ottoman. It would be easier to stay here. Easier to get drunk again. 

The edge of the photo frame digs into his palm. He glances down at it, at Draco's face looking up at him, a furrow of worry on his brow now. "I'm going," Harry murmurs. "I promise." 

Harry pushes himself up. Steps into the Floo, the frame still clutched in his hands. 

The last thing he sees before the Floo swirls him away is the edge of the carpet flipping up, overturning the bottle of firewhisky onto the floor. 

And, for the first time all day, Harry truly exhales.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, you can subscribe for Tales from the Special Branch updates [here on AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/series/661862) or follow me [on tumblr at femmequixotic!](http://femmequixotic.tumblr.com). I'm taking Special Branch asks there. The next chapter of Set Me Free will post on Sunday, June 24.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Draco seeks a favour from an unexpected source, Jake gets unwelcome advice, and Harry tries (perhaps unsuccessfully) to keep his temper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe it's already Chapter Three. Dear readers, thank you as always for sticking with this little-story-that-became-enormous! I'm awfully afraid it must get a bit worse before it gets better. I know many of you are tender-hearted (sassy-cissa and noeon, I'm looking at you) and I love you all for it. It will be okay, I promise! (I do! Really!) Just maybe not immediately, lol. This chapter's a bit shorter than usual (17k tonight) because Noe and I are elbows-deep into packing our lives up for our soon-to-happen move (please don't tell our cats yet, because they are going to be utterly distraught when it happens, lololol), but I wanted to make sure I had something up on time!
> 
> Also, content warning for this chapter: there's a brief mention of a past miscarriage in a conversation between two characters.
> 
> If you need a bit of light angst with immediate HEA as a chaser, you might check out the fic that noe and I wrote together for the recent HD mpregfest, [Rock-a-bye Sweet Baby James](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14878328). It's early twenties Drarry with a new baby, trying to work things out. But for now--on to the Special Branch team!

A bell rings, loud and sharp, pulling Draco from the light doze he's been in for a good hour or two. He blinks, his eyes heavy and scratchy, just as the bright overhead lights flare on, pushing back the lingering shadows of the night. 

"Fuck," Draco mumbles, and he rolls to one side, burying his face in the crook of his elbow. He's tired; his bruised and battered body still aches. There's been no interest in bringing him to a Healer as far as he can tell. Not that he expected any of the guards to care, if he's honest. He's a prisoner now, number 59304-A-23. Nothing more than that; he's been stripped even of his name. 

John Doe, Draco reminds himself. It's what the guards have taken to calling him when they'd rather not read off the string of numbers assigned to him. Johnny for short, and Draco hates the nasal flatness of their accents when they stop by his cell, demanding to know if he's ready to come out or not.

Draco hasn't been. For two days now he's hidden himself in his iron cot, beneath the scratchy, threadbare sheet, giving his bruised body the rest it needs to recover from Wilkinson's interrogations. The guards don't seem to care. _He'll get hungry soon enough,_ they say to each other with a laugh, and then they walk away, not bothering to make certain Draco has food or water. He can get the latter from the tiny sink in the corner, even though it tastes rusty and stale. Food hasn't really mattered. Not yet at least, although Draco knows that's not going to last much longer. His body's gaunt now; the orange trousers he'd been given hang off his bony hips, and Draco can feel each indentation of his ribs beneath the looseness of his skin. He hasn't eaten much, not since Thibodaux. MACUSA's made bloody well certain of that. And whatever rest he's managed to get whilst hiding out here in his cell has been half-arsed at best, interrupted by the guards on their rounds and the shouts from the other cells.

When Draco sleeps, it's never deeply, and he wakes up with a strangled cry sometimes, the memory of Lamia's coils tightening around his chest, crushing the breath from his lungs, the scrape of her scales across his skin making him shudder. Draco can't sleep after those dreams. Instead, he sits on his thin mattress, his back against the cinderblock wall, his knees pulled to his chest, willing his heart to stop pounding. 

No one seems to notice. Or care. 

Draco can hear movement from the cells around him. The snatch of a song echoes down the corridor, a laugh and a curse coming from a few cells away. He's heard the others talking through the bars, has caught snatches of conversations over the past two days. Sometimes it's about him, wondering what the hell is wrong with him, why he's hiding away. He's weak, some say, and others have decided he's half-mad. Draco's not certain either is wrong, not really. 

He draws in a slow breath. His ribs still hurt. The newest bruises have only just begun to yellow. Really, Draco's grateful for that. It's been a relief to have some time without physical injury, he thinks, and he rubs his hands over his face. The beard feels strange on his jaw, still thin and patchy in places. He holds one hand out in front of him, turning it in the light. His skin is almost translucent in its paleness now; he hasn't seen sunlight in weeks. Draco curls his fingers in towards his palm. His nails are broken and dirty, and he can feel the magic dampener pressing against his sinews and joints, holding the ebb and flow of Draco's magic at bay. It feels wrong, he thinks, as if something's blocked inside of him, pushing the very essence of Draco deep down into his body. He wonders if it had felt like this in Azkaban for the prisoners, if the Dementors' constant presence had created a similar effect, draining the emotions from each of them until there was nothing to fuel their magic properly, until what little hope they might have to cling to was gone and with it any chance of using that magical spark. 

And Draco thinks of his father's face when he'd escaped from Azkaban back after Draco's sixth year, of the hint of madness that had clung to Lucius after that, the certainty Draco had that somehow those months in prison had broken his father, warped his mind, at least a little. 

Will the same happen to him here? 

Draco close his eyes, pulls his fist against his chest. He can feel the steady beat of his heart beneath the orange cotton of his shirt. He thinks of Harry, wonders how frantic he is. It's not a question of whether or not Harry's trying to find him, Draco realises, and whilst the thought doesn't surprise him, the certainty that comes with it does. But Draco knows Harry, knows that there's no chance in Hades itself that Harry isn't blaming himself for this, that he hasn't been doing everything he can to find Draco. 

Not that he will, Draco thinks, a bit grimly. America is larger than Britain, and if MACUSA wants to hide him away, they will. And the chance that Draco could be found, listed here in this prison population as a John Doe, is slim. Draco may have only been an Unspeakable for a few weeks, but he knows that. Information and documentation can be easily lost in a bureaucratic system. Look at how well Marcus Wrightson had been able to do that. 

No one gives a fuck about prisoners, after all.

Slowly, Draco pushes himself up. He can hear the guards clanging about down at the end of the corridor. His stomach rumbles, and Draco knows he'll have to eat something today. He's gone too long without food. With a sigh, he stands, swaying only slightly, and manages to stumble over to the toilet, pushing the elasticised waist of his trousers down enough to take a quick slash. His piss echoes against the stainless steel of the bowl. There isn't much of it; Draco's been dehydrated for too long. He pulls himself back together, washes his hands in the slow drip of the sink before splashing a bit of water on his face. When he looks back up at his reflection in the dull polished tin of the mirror, Draco barely recognises himself. His face is thin; the beard covers most of his jaw, a bit of his upper lip. It's a darker blond than the hair that hangs limply against his cheeks, but not by much. The orange of the prisoner's clothing makes Draco look sallow and ill; this virulent Chudley Cannons shade has never been good on him, which is one of many reasons--along with the fact that the Cannons are complete rubbish--that Draco's a Portree supporter. 

A pang of something bittersweet and unhappy goes through Draco. Harry loves the Cannons--Draco chalks it up to Weasley's early and unchecked influence--and Draco thinks of the battered Cannons t-shirt that Harry likes to wear to bed sometimes, the one that's soft and worn out, just perfect for Draco to lean his head against as he listens to the even huff of Harry's breath. Draco touches the v-neck of his shirt, twisting his fingers around the scratchy cotton. Where's Harry right now, Draco wonders. Is he sat in his office at the Ministry, thinking of Draco? Melancholy settles across Draco, wrapping around him in softly heavy tendrils. He misses Harry, misses the quiet of waking up beside him in the mornings, misses the warmth of Harry's laugh, the gentleness of Harry's kiss. Draco doesn't feel himself now; it's as if half of him's missing, and he doesn't know if he'll ever get it back. 

There's a clatter across the bars of his cell, and Draco looks around. A guard's stood there, one he hasn't seen before, young, his cheeks still spotty, his truncheon pressed against the iron grid of the door. "Breakfast," he says sharply, with a bit too much bravado as he opens the door to the cell, and Draco thinks he must be new to the job. "Fall into line." 

For a moment, Draco considers refusing. He doesn't know that he's ready to go out of his cell, to face what he'll find beyond the limits of those iron bars. He wants to protect himself, to retreat back beneath the thin sheets on his cot, but his stomach grumbles again. Draco draws in an unsteady breath, then pushes his feet into the flimsy shoes he'd been given, barely more than leather slippers, and strides out into the corridor to join the queue forming. 

He's met with silence and long, appraising looks from the other men. Draco just eyes them back, his jaw set, his shoulders stiff, and then they turn away, back to their own conversations. Draco wants to relax, but he knows he doesn't dare. Not here. Not anytime soon. 

They're led through the corridors, stopping every so often for the guards to open a heavy iron door, studded with thick screws and wide bolts. Draco can feel the wards on them as he passes beneath the metal lintels; the faint brush of magic across his skin is almost a relief. The others feel the same. Draco can tell by the way their eyes flutter closed for the briefest moment as they step through, the way their breath comes out in a soft sigh. Draco wonders why the dampeners don't affect the wards; it's a theoretical question that he would have found deliciously puzzling if it didn't affect him on such a bloody personal level. Now the whole idea irritates Draco, if he's honest. 

He reaches back, rubs the back of his neck. It feels itchy and raw where the rough edge of his shirt scrapes against his skin. Draco stares at the rumpled hair of the man in front of him. It's ginger, virulently so, even more than a Weasley's locks, almost the same shade as the man's orange jumpsuit, and there's a large spot, red and pus-filled right beneath his hairline. Draco looks away, his stomach suddenly roiling with queasiness. He thinks about turning around, insisting that he be allowed to return to his cell, but he knows that will make him look weak. So he breathes out instead, focusses on each step he's taking, the soft shuffle of twenty, thirty men's feet against the cement floor. 

Another door opens, and the scent of coffee and bacon drifts out. It smells incredible, and Draco's mouth starts to water. It's been weeks since he's had more than bread and water and a bit of unidentifiable meat. 

The cafeteria is plain; four rows of long, low-slung wooden tables and benches line the long room and the walls are painted a dingy grey. There's nothing appealing about it, but Draco can't take his eyes off the plates of food he sees as he passes, mounds of scrambled eggs and rashes of bacon piled high on the plastic trays. The men from his corridor join the queue. It's shorter than Draco would have imagined, and he realises that there must be a timed entry for each block of cells. The cafeteria's far too small to hold the whole of Oudepoort. 

A grizzled old man in prison oranges hands Draco a tray before slapping a large spoonful of fluffy, yellow eggs into one of the indentions. It's all Draco can do not to pinch a bit off and put it in his mouth. A few rashers of bacon follow, along with a bit of bread that looks like a scone but without sultanas, and then Draco's following the spotty, ginger lad back towards a table, the benches already starting to fill with men Draco recognises from his corridor's queue. He sets his tray down, steps over the bench to sit, but before his arse meets the worn wood, the man across from him says, "Not here, Auror."

Draco stills, looks at him. The man's face is round and reddened beneath his closely shorn dark hair. "I wasn't aware there were assigned seats." He keeps his voice even, light, but he doesn't look away.

The whole table stops, and Draco can hear the soft rush of indrawn breaths. His heart thuds against his chest; judging by the way the other man's eyes narrow at him, Draco thinks he's done something rather foolish. 

"Like I said." The man stands up, his burly frame unfolding as he pushes his wide knuckles against the tabletop. "Not _here_ , Auror."

No one says a word. Draco's jaw clenches. He doesn't move, doesn't back down. He can feel eyes on him, and Draco wonders if he's being stupidly, recklessly thick about all of this, like some impestuous Gryffindor he might know, but he knows he can't back down. Not without losing face. 

"How very impolite of you," Draco says after a moment, and without looking away from the man, he lowers himself, sitting down onto the bench beside the ginger boy, who's staring at him with wide, horrified eyes. Draco reaches for the fork tucked into one of the crevices on his tray and digs the dulled tines into the pile of eggs. He refuses to let himself flinch, not even when another fork slams down into the wood centimetres from his knuckles. 

"Don't be testing me, boy," the man snarls, and, wrinkling his nose in disgust, Draco wipes away the droplets of spittle that hit his hand. "Ain't nobody wants one of you bastards sitting with us--"

Another voice cuts in, a honeyed, amused drawl that makes Draco glance up in surprise. "Paulie, you shithead, you can fuck the fuck off right now." A broad-shouldered man, tall and muscular and tanned beneath his orange jumpsuit, dirty blond curls threaded with silver, sits down beside Draco. He's older than Draco, closer to his father's age than his own, Draco would estimate. The man picks up a rasher of bacon and bites into it, chewing slowly before he adds, "Nothing wrong with an Auror gone bad in my book. Reckon he might have a few tips and tricks for us crooks to share along the way."

Paulie looks as if he might jump across the table. His face gets redder; his fists clench. "Says you."

Really, as a rejoinder, it's weak, Draco thinks. The man next to him seems to concur. He raises an eyebrow. "Seems I do, yeah." He just looks at Paulie, who grabs his tray and storms off, his shoulders high and tight. One of the men sitting beside him follows, with what looks to Draco like an apologetic glance backwards at them. 

Draco breathes out. "What a lovely individual," he murmurs beneath his breath, watching Paulie slam his tray down at another table.

"He's a jackass," the man next to him says, and he looks over at Draco, his handsome face curious. "But he's not wrong about Aurors being disliked around these parts. I don't mind 'em so much. My kid used to be one, so I don't think they're the devil incarnate." He grins at Draco. "Except the ones who end up on guard rotation here." 

"Not the most plush of duties," Draco says. He's had a bit too much personal experience with those assignments across his career. 

"Wouldn't think so." The man studies Draco for a moment. "You're not MACUSA though, unless they've started recruiting across the Atlantic."

The thought makes Draco want to snort. "Not likely."

"So British, I'd say." The man breaks another rasher of bacon in half. "Or something Europeany what talks like that. Am I right?"

"English, yes." Draco takes a bite of his eggs. They're better than he'd have expected, warm and buttery. He eyes the man speculatively. There's something familiar about him, although Draco's rather certain he's never met him before. "Wiltshire to be specific, although I much prefer London." 

The man beside him raises an eyebrow. "My youngest boy's been to London." His expression softens, grows a bit wistful. "Seemed to like it."

"It's brilliant." Draco breaks off a bit of bacon. It's saltier than what he's used to, a bit crisper and smokier too, less chewy than English bacon. He's not certain he entirely likes it, but he eats it anyway. He hadn't realised how hungry he really was; he barely bothers with proper table manners, shovelling his food as quickly into his mouth as he can manage. When he swallows, he says, "I miss it." 

"We all miss home, I'd say." The man sips from his cup of coffee. It's blacker than anything Draco's ever seen anyone drink, and it smells strong. Part of him wants some, but he thinks it might sour his stomach, which is cramping anyway from the suddenness of food. He tries to slow down, wipes the back of his mouth with a scrap of napkin they'd given him in queue. The man eyes him. "What are you in for? Must have been bad if they're willing to throw an Auror to this lot. Especially one who ain't American."

"Ex-Auror," Draco says, a bit bitterly. He rubs a hand over his face. His beard itches still. "And I seem to have pissed off someone rather high up in MACUSA."

The man snorts. "Damn stupid of you." To be honest, Draco can't argue with that. The other man rolls his shoulders, leans forward, his elbows on the table. "But I got to say, fucking around with Paulie like you just did wasn't real smart, either." Before Draco can frown, the man holds up a hand. "Ballsy as fuck, sure, and don't think I don't respect that. But you better sleep with one eye open for a while, Mr…" He glances down at the number on Draco's shirt. "59304-A-23. Paulie don't take disrespect like that lightly."

Really, to be honest, that's exactly what Draco's afraid of. The last thing he needs is to die here in the middle of Oudepoort prison under the name of John fucking Doe. 

And that thought makes Draco's skin prickle with unease. He shifts on the bench, suddenly uncomfortable, and he can't bear the idea that no one will know him as anything other than prisoner 59304-A-23, stamped in black ink across the front of his orange shirt. So he swallows, and he sticks his hand out, his fingers trembling only slightly, and he says, "Malfoy." His name catches in the back of his throat, and it aches. He bites his lip, then adds, "Draco Malfoy. Former Auror for the British Ministry." He doesn't mention being an Unspeakable. That won't do him any favours in this place, Draco knows that full well. "Currently a forced guest of the MACUSA law enforcement system, it seems."

A flicker of something Draco can't quite place goes over the man's face--recognition, perhaps, but that's madness--and then he looks at Draco for a long moment, almost kindly, Draco thinks, as if he knows what Draco's feeling. "Good to meet you, Malfoy," he says after a moment. His fingers curl around Draco's, his grip firm and strong. "I'm Jasper Durant."

Draco can't move, can't extract his hand from Jasper's. He stares at Jasper, feeling like a sodding twat, but he really can't help himself. Perhaps he ought to have expected this; it's not as if he didn't realise that Jasper Durant was being held in Oudepoort, but so are a great number of wizards and witches, to be honest. Still, he can see the Durant brothers in Jasper's blond curls and blue eyes, in the way he tilts his head, studying Draco. "Jasper Durant," Draco says finally, his voice sounding rough and raspy to his ear. He pulls his hand away, his fingers tingling. 

Jasper's smile is lazy and warm, same as his boys'. "Reckon you've heard of me." He rests his elbows on the table; the sleeves of his jumpsuit are rolled up, and the muscles of his forearms are strong, thick. There's a tattoo on one of them, faded and old, a greyish skull resting on a bed of red roses, _laissez les bons temps rouler_ in an almost indecipherable script beneath. 

"A bit." Draco drags the tip of his tongue along his still-battered lower lip, the edge of it catching on a dried scab or two. He can taste the sour-saltiness of his skin, the slick, peppery butteriness of the eggs. "More that I know your son." He hesitates, then corrects himself. "Sons, I suppose." It's not as if he hasn't spoken to Eddie, after all. He looks over at Jasper, who's regarding him calmly. "You don't seem surprised."

"Wouldn't really need to be." Jasper's gaze shifts past Draco, towards the ginger sat on Draco's other side. "Kev," he says, sharp but cajoling at the same time, and the boy looks over at him, a bit nervously. "Fuck off. Blondie here and I, we got to have a talk."

Kev frowns. "But I ain't finished breakfast yet--" He holds up the not-scone, butter smeared across one side of it.

"You can eat your goddamn biscuit at another table." Jasper's voice shifts, takes on a tone that sends a faint shiver down Draco's spine. This is a man who expects to be listened to, Draco realises, and he wonders what it was like for Durant to grow up beneath Jasper's thumb. 

Kev's face blanches, albeit somewhat sullenly. "You're a fucking jackass, Jasper," he says, and Draco can feel the thrill mixed with terror that rolls off the boy at his nerviness. Jasper just looks at him evenly, and a flush goes over Kev's face. He stands, picking up his half-empty tray. "Fine." The glance he turns on Draco is vicious. "Hope he fucks you over," he mutters, and Draco has the distinct feeling that Kev's going to blame him for this slight. Brilliant, Draco thinks as he watches Kev stride over to one of the other tables, his shoulders tight, his back ramrod straight. 

"There's something not right about him," Draco says, almost to himself, and Jasper snorts. 

"No shit." Jasper reaches for his coffee again, takes another sip. "Kev's in here because he hexed the skin off his stepfather one night. Completely. Poor fucker bled out on the living room carpet in front of Kev's mother and twelve-year-old sister. Neither of 'em come to see him now."

A shudder goes through Draco. "How old is he?"

Jasper thinks for a moment, his gaze drifting back over to Kev. "Nineteen, maybe? Twenty? Old enough to be in here for the past year, at least." He shakes his head. "Says his stepfather was trying to hit him, but his mama told the court Kev was just a mean son of a bitch, so who knows?" He looks over at Draco, his face sardonic. "Not a lot of nice and kind people end up in Oudepoort."

"Other than you, obviously." Draco raises an eyebrow.

Jasper just laughs, loud enough to turn heads. Draco notices the looks they get, most of them uncertain and uneasy. He knows enough about prison dynamics to realise that Jasper's a powerful man in the Oudepoort hierarchy, one Draco probably wants on his side. 

"I'm a goddamn angel," Jasper says, and his eyes crinkle at the corners. He's charming, Draco will give him that. It's easy to see where Durant and Eddie both get it from. There's a certain easy comfort Jasper exudes, but Draco can tell there's an iron will hidden behind it. Jasper pushes his tray away, cups his coffee cup between his palms. It's a heavy pottery mug, and Draco wonders if it's ever been used as a weapon in here. He's already thought of several ways he could defend himself with the plastic tray, or even the fork, if need bre. Neither would cause much damage--although the fork could put out an eye easily, he supposes--but that mug could knock someone out. His body tenses, and he recalls the sparring he'd done with Burke, the way she'd taught him to use his body as well as his mind in a fight. Draco'd always been good at hand-to-hand combat in Auror training; he's fairly certain he could hold his own if Paulie or Kev came after him. Long enough, at least.

He's not so certain about Jasper Durant.

"I might like you," Jasper says. "Eddie told me I would, even if you did steal Jake's boy from him." He studies Draco's face. "You remind me of Jakey in a way. Rougher around the edges, though."

Draco stiffens, trying to hide the offence he's just taken. "So kind of you to say."

Jasper chuckles, sets down his coffee. "It's a compliment, boy. Jake hides too much of himself." His face sobers; he looks away. "Reckon some of that's my own damn fault, not being there for him when he was growing up." He falls silent, then sighs, shaking his head. "Never trust a goddamn Englishman," he murmurs, almost to himself. 

"Barachiel Dee." Draco watches him, takes in the flicker of surprise in Jasper's eyes when he looks back over. "I know about Christopher Zabini."

"Do you." Jasper's voice is flat. His mouth is a thin, tight line. "Things ain't always the way they seem."

Draco just nods. "I'm aware," he says, his voice quiet. "Sometimes situations look rather a bit different when you're inside of them."

"That's the goddamn truth." The quirk of Jasper's mouth is wry and grim. "Not saying I didn't make mistakes." He looks away again, lifts his coffee mug to his lips. "But sometimes the fucking punishment don't always fit the crime, you know?" He drains the rest of his coffee, setting the mug back down with a thump against the wooden table. They're being watched, Draco realises, both by other prisoners and by the guards stood along the walls. Draco picks at his bacon, rolls bits of it between his fingertips, leaving his skin greasy. He wipes them off on the scrap of paper napkin. It barely works. 

Neither of them say anything for a long moment, and then Jasper leans back, flattening his hands against the table top. He doesn't look at Draco. "Do you believe in fate, Blondie?"

Draco tucks a loose lock of his hair back behind his ear. "I don't know," he admits. "Although I'm starting to think there are forces beyond our control that bring people together." He glances over at Jasper, his brow furrowed. Draco's never been the type to believe in signs and omens, but he's beginning to wonder if he was wrong, if the Seers might not be entirely full of bunk. "Otherwise, how else would the two of us have ended up here in this place at this time?"

Jasper's smile is half-hearted. "Could just be a coincidence."

"Perhaps." Draco's not so sure of that. Neither, he suspects, is Jasper. 

"It's been my experience," Jasper says slowly, "that sometimes that old fucker meddles about. Particularly when he wants something."

Draco's brow furrows. "Who?"

Jasper stands up. He looks down at Draco. "Death," he says simply, and a chill prickles across Draco's skin. Jasper's face is solemn. Uneasy. "I can smell his shit all over this." His bright blue eyes glitter, almost angrily. "I've spent most of my life tracking that bastard, and I can see him on you." He hesitates, then says, "You ever hear of the Norns?"

"The Fates, you mean?" Draco asks. He's not up on his Norse mythology, but he thinks he remembers that much from his Ancient Runes class at Hogwarts. "Weaver of human lives and all that rot?"

"Something like that, yeah." Jasper picks up his tray. "It's shit, of course. All those stories. I ain't a churchgoer, Blondie. Never have been, never will be, whatever my wife might have wanted. I don't believe in God, but I sure as hell believe in Death. And that goddamn bastard's the only one who has the power to weave lives together like this." He studies Draco's face. "If he wanted you here to meet me…" Jasper shrugs, but his expression's troubled. "We both better be fucking worried, I'd say."

He starts to turn away. Draco grabs his elbow, not caring who notices. And they all do, he knows. He can feel a rush of tension go through the room, can see one or two of the guards put their hands on the truncheons strapped to their belts. They're all afraid of Jasper, he realises, and he knows it's because Death's marked Durant's father. Draco can feel the cold tendrils of it curling off Jasper's bare skin. 

"Better not, Blondie," Jasper says.

Draco doesn't move his hand. His fingers grip the muscular swell of Jasper's forearm, just above the tattoeed skull. "You have a mobile," he says, his voice low. Jasper's face tightens, but Draco doesn't let him interrupt. "I know you do; Rufus let it slip that you've rung him up."

Jasper's gaze flicks towards the guards who are watching them closely. "My brother's a fucking asshole."

"Probably, yes." Draco doesn't give a damn about Durant family squabbles. "But I need to let someone know I'm here." He thinks about hearing Harry's voice, and his throat closes up, raw and painful. He looks away from Jasper, draws in a ragged breath. "Let me make one call. That's all I ask."

There's a long silence as Jasper studies him. Draco can feel his heart thudding against his chest, the bile rising up in his throat. He hates the faint swell of hope that's uncurling inside of him, that fragile whisper deep within that wants so badly to see Harry, to speak to him, even if it's only for a moment. "Please," Draco asks, and his voice cracks. He hates that moment of weakness, hates the pity he sees flare in Jasper's gaze. It doesn't matter, though. Draco'll do anything he can just to let Harry know he's alive, that he's here. 

Jasper pulls his arm away. "Maybe," he says after a moment, and the flutter of hope in Draco's belly fades away. His shoulders slump; he sinks back against the table, turns his head away. 

And then there's a clatter of cutlery against plastic as the tray lands on the table beside Draco. Jasper's breath huffs across his ear. "Lesson number one," Jasper murmurs in that soft, lazy drawl of his. "Nothing ever comes free around these parts." 

Draco looks over, his face inches from Jasper's. A heavy unhappiness settles over his shoulders, and he feels as if he's drowning in grief once more. "I'm not a whore," he manages to get out. He won't do that. Not for anything, not even for a chance to speak to Harry. He can't. 

Jasper blinks, and then he laughs softly. "Jesus, Blondie. I hate to tell you, you're pretty, but you ain't my type. My boy might like dick, and good for him if he does, but I prefer a nice plush pussy, so my hand'll do me just fine, even in here. So don't worry. Your virtue's safe with me, at least." His gaze slides down the table, then back to Draco. "If not with some of these other assholes, so you might want to be careful."

That's an unpleasant thought. Draco follows Jasper's glance, taking in the pinched, grim faces that are watching them surreptitiously. He wonders which ones of them might go after him, and he swallows, his skin prickling, his breath catching in his lungs. He can feel the anxiety starting to well up, and he pushes it down again, tries to exhale. It doesn't work well, but he manages to keep it all tamped down. 

For now at least. 

"What do you want, then?" Draco asks, his voice low. 

Jasper's silent for a moment, then he says, "I'll let you know." He steps back, and the bastard has the cheek to wink at Draco. He raises his voice. "As they say back home, _on va se reparler plus tard_ , oui?"

"Oui," Draco says, his face oddly warm. He can feel the others watching them as Jasper picks his tray up again, turning to walk away. He doesn't know what's just happened, not really, but he when he glances back down the table, heads swivel back, the other men focussing on their breakfasts again. Draco feels unsettled. Uncertain. Sunlight streams down through the grimy, thick-glassed windows set high up in the roof above them. It's grey and weak, but it spills across the plastic trays and ceramic mugs spread across the table, glinting against dirty fork tines. Draco closes his eyes, tries to slow the rapid beat of his heart.

When Draco looks up again, there's an older man eyeing him from the next table over, bits of bright yellow egg caught in his greying brown beard. He wipes them away with a napkin, then says, "Watch out for that Durant asshole." His accent sounds flat and nasal to Draco's ear, harsh in a way that Jasper's hadn't been. "Shouldn't trust him further than you can goddamn throw him."

Draco's already figured that much out. "Thanks," he says, his voice mild. He doesn't need to alienate more of the men he's trapped with in this hellhole. Part of him almost wishes there were Dementors. Draco thinks he might be able to understand them a bit more. 

A whistle sounds, sharp and loud over the quiet rumble of voices. "Line up," a guard shouts, swinging his truncheon, and there's a loud scrape as benches are shoved back, trays and cutlery clattering as they're picked up. 

Draco pockets the not-scone. Biscuit, Durant had called it, although it's nothing like the chocolate digestives and delicate Florentines Draco loves. It feels powdery beneath his fingers; bits of it crumble off. But Draco's still hungry, even if his stomach hurts. He'll nibble on it later, he supposes, and he stands, falling into the queue to take his tray back to the kitchen. The guards watch him, their faces impassive, and Draco has the distinct feeling that they've noted his exchange with Jasper Durant, for better or for worse. 

Most likely the latter, Draco thinks grimly. Jasper doesn't seem to have the best reputation in Oudepoort, after all. Draco doesn't want to consider what that might entail. 

He follows the man in front of him, shuffling one foot before the other, his head down, his hair falling into his face, ignoring the distrustful looks and whispers around him. _Auror_ , he hears as he passes the others, and he can feel their hate. Their wariness. Draco's fingers curl around the edge of his tray, the plastic biting into his flesh. One swing of the tray would stop a man for a moment, at least long enough for Draco to stab out with his fork. It's not much of a defence, but it's all Draco has, and he's willing to use it. This is his life now, for however long it might take. But Draco's determined to survive it, to make his way back to London. To Grimmauld. 

To Harry. 

And no one in this damned prison is going to stop him.

***

Jake sits in the corner of a pub just off Camden High Street, his table half-hidden between a narrow paned window overlooking Regent's Canal and a heavy, half-open wooden door that leads to a smaller room the pub uses for concerts and other group gatherings. Right now it's filled with students from London Business School, having some sort of fucking mid-Thursday mixer for the start of the term, and really, Jake thinks, there's very little more annoying than the drunken businesspeople of the future droning on about global leadership and strategy as they knock back bottle after bottle of wine.

He cups his pint of lager between his palms. One thing he'll say about the Brits is that they do have decent beer, even if it's taken Jake years to get used to drinking it warm. He lifts the glass, takes a sip. It's rich and hoppy, stronger than the slop that most New York bars will pull from the tap. Unless you're in a hipster place in Brooklyn, he supposes, but even then, Jake thinks the indie breweries still don't always hit the mark the way the British do. To be honest, Jake chalks it up to the differences in drinking culture. He'd grown up watching his family knock back liquor like it was water, and it still surprises him how much his London colleagues can down on a pub night. Even Blaise can drink Jake under the table sometimes, and Blaise usually wrinkles his nose at anything that doesn't come in a very expensive bottle. 

If he's honest, thinking of Blaise makes Jake worry. They're still tiptoeing around each other in a way that Jake doesn't quite understand. It's as if Blaise is keeping himself distant on purpose, making it damn clear that he doesn't want Jake brushing up against his mind, even on accident. And Jake's been trying not to, but it's hard sometimes. There's something about Blaise that makes it easy for Jake to read him, and Jake finds it exhausting to constantly be holding himself back, keeping his Legilimency in check. The only relief he gets is when they're sleeping or apart, and Jake's found himself making excuses the past two days to step out at night, if only to walk down to the shop for twenty minutes or so. He needs those few moments when Blaise is back home to let his guard down, to let himself feel whatever he needs to feel without worrying that it's being broadcast across the room to his boyfriend, and he thinks Blaise does too. 

The days are easier, once Blaise leaves for work, even if Jake hates being at loose ends like this. He wants to be out in the field, doing something, and Graves is being far too fucking cautious in Jake's opinion. Still, he's practically memorised the files Graves has given him over the past few days. They're not much, just what Tom could smuggle out of MACUSA before he'd been replaced. Most of it's intel on Yaxley that Jake already knew or had suspected, and Jake thinks Graves is keeping secrets himself, holding cards close to his chest that he's not willing to share with Jake. Not yet at least. 

It's goddamn typical of Tom Graves, Jake thinks in annoyance. Demanding help, then leaving Jake floundering until Graves decides that it's time to share. But Jake's used to the bastard's machinations by now. He's worked with Tom long enough to expect this sort of thing. He suspects there's a bit of Ilvermorny in Graves' reticence; every supervisor Jake's worked for who'd gone to that school tended to be a squirrelly little rat at times, and Jake thinks it must be something they teach up on Mount Greylock. Tom's got a double-shot of it, too, given that he'd done an undergrad degree at Harvard before he'd come onto the Auror force, or at least that's what Jake has always heard. The one time he'd asked Mel about it, she'd just laughed, but she hadn't confirmed or denied. Then again, she wouldn't. The mystique works to Graves' benefit, after all. 

Jake takes another sip of his lager and leans into the slanted wooden back of the bench. It's uncomfortable, but he doesn't really care. He hadn't slept well last night, tossing and turning until he'd finally slipped out of bed, leaving Blaise behind curled beneath the blankets. He'd stretched out on the sofa in the living room, hoping sleep would come, but it hadn't. Jake doesn't know why. He and Blaise had fucked before falling into bed, a quick, eager coupling that had left them both gasping and worn out. Jake should have slept like the dead, but instead he'd stared up at the ceiling, listening to Blaise's soft breath. Now he's cranky and exhausted, his scratchy eyes burning each time he blinks. 

He sets his glass down, runs his thumb along the side. How long will he and Blaise last like this? It feels too much like those last days with Harry, Jake thinks, that deep gulf forming between them, the only connection they had being physical. His stomach churns. Jake doesn't want to lose Blaise. It won't be like losing Harry. Jake had been angry back then, but it'd been more humiliation, not grief. If Blaise walks away, Jake isn't certain what he'll do. Survive, he supposes, but it'll be harder than he suspects. Blaise is part of Jake now. He always will be. 

Eddie'd tell him he sounds like a lovesick fool, Jake thinks, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. And maybe Jake is. He'd thought he'd loved Harry. And Jake knows he had in a way. But this is different, what he feels for Blaise, and Jake doesn't want to think about that too closely. It's all hopeless, anyway. They haven't really dealt with the tension about their fathers to begin with; whenever Jake starts to bring it up, Blaise shuts him down. Jake's fairly certain that's not going to work. Not when Blaise knows his father died because of Jasper Durant. 

And that makes Jake feel nauseous. He doesn't understand how their lives can be twisted up like this. How he could fall for the son of the man his father ended up in Oudepoort for killing. How neither of them could have known. It's like a bad morality play, or one of those shit movies the Lifetime channel likes to play back home, the ones his Aunt Eula had secretly watched when she thought Jake wasn't paying attention back during his school days at L'École Josephine de Beauharnais. 

Jake lifts his beer again. It's half-gone now; his gaze flicks to the clock over the bar, the one that advertises Harp Lager. Nearly quarter-past one now, and he's still sitting here like a damn fool, waiting. He thinks about leaving. There are better things to be doing in London on a gorgeous Thursday afternoon in September than sitting around a goddamn Camden pub drinking alone. Jake just has no fucking idea what they might be.

The bell on the door jangles as it opens, and sunlight floods in, along with the rumble of traffic on the street. It closes again; Jake cranes his head, trying to look around the rough-hewn post blocking his view. The barkeep calls out a welcome, and then Jake hears a familiar voice asking for a pint. He relaxes against the bench, taking another sip of his lager. A moment later, footsteps echo on the worn wooden floor as Tom Graves comes into view. 

"About fucking time," Jake says, not caring if he sounds irritated. 

Graves sets his own pint glass down on the table and pulls out the slat-backed chair across from Jake. "Had to firecall Hogwarts," he says, and he sounds tired. "Philip had an altercation."

Jake sits forward, his annoyance fading. "Is he all right?"

"He'll be fine." Graves' voice is clipped, tense. Jake can only imagine how that firecall must have gone. "Kids can be assholes, that's all." He looks away, his mouth tight, a small furrow between his thick brows. "And Phil's not always at his best in a new environment."

And Jake can tell he won't get anything else out of Graves. He's not surprised by that; Tom's always been careful when talking about his family. Still Jake knows he worries about his son sometimes. Philip's a great kid--smart and kind and funny--but he's quiet and quirky as well, focussed on his own interests sometimes to the exclusion of knowing how to interact with his peers. 

"I'm sorry," Jake says finally. He wonders what it'd be like to have kids, to worry about how their lives would be affected by his choices. "I know this is hard for your whole family."

Graves just nods. He lifts his beer, takes a sip. The gold of his watch glints in the warm sunlight from the window next to them. Outside people pass, shapeless blotches of colour through the old glass panes. "You've gone through all the files then?"

"More times than I'd like to admit." Jake studies Graves. His face looks lined and tired, older than he'd seemed back in New York, and Jake realises with a start that Graves has to be in his fifties at least. He'd started with the Aurors back when Jake was just a kid himself, exploring the Thibodaux bayous on Eddie's heels. You don't reach the level of Director of Magical Security overnight, after all. "But I already knew most of it."

"I assumed." Graves sets his glass back down onto the worn tabletop. He turns it between his fingers, leaving behind a wet mark on the dark wood. Laughter comes from the other room; the business students have ordered another round of wine. Graves sighs and leans back in his chair. "You understand how politically influential Aldric Yaxley's become in recent years then."

Jake pulls at a hangnail on his thumb, taking a moment to think as the flake of skin rips free. It stings for a moment, then he looks up at Graves. "He funded Quahog's campaign."

"Among others," Graves says. "Half of our congressional representatives have taken money from Yaxley's foundation at one time or another, and he's shored up more than one government department when spending cuts were on the horizon. Including ours." 

Hence Tom's willingness to kowtow to him earlier in the summer, Jake thinks, but he knows better than to say that out loud. 

Graves frowns down into his beer. "We can trace business ties as well--mostly to reputable companies, although if you push a bit harder you'll find secondary industries that might have the sheen knocked off a bit that Yaxley's own company has bailed out or bought over the years." 

"His import-export business?" Jake can't help the disbelief that colours his question. "Jesus, Tom, you know as well as I do that nine times out of ten that sort of thing's a criminal front."

Graves shrugs. "Usually it is. But Yaxley's good at hiding in plain sight. He immigrated in the 'Eighties and ingratiated himself immediately with the Boston Brahmin. Married his daughter to one, bought a house in the Back Bay, started throwing money around, hosting parties. They say Teddy Kennedy even came to some, and you know how that family likes to disassociate itself with its wizarding connections."

Well, sure. Everyone does. The Kennedy clan haven't been keen on tying themself to their wizarding heritage since Jack won the Muggle presidency. "Half of them are Squibs anyway," Jake says with a frown. "So what you're saying is his rich buddies protected him."

"And he protected their financial interests." Graves rubs his palm over his jaw. "Yaxley's always been good at making money. As far as I can tell, he's been working towards this since he first showed up in Boston, using his connections to buy influential people. Sam Quahog's just his most prominent conquest. Aldric Yaxley controls pretty much the whole of the Boston-New York corridor, even down into Philadelphia and further on to Savannah in some cases."

Jake chews on his bottom lip. "No West Coast connections?"

"Not many." Graves rests his elbows on the table. "At least none that are traceable." He hesitates, then adds, "He's worked some in Chicago in recent years, tying his financial interests to the Godunov potions empire."

And Jake thinks of Parkinson's older sister, hidden away somewhere with Dimitri Godunov. He'd be more than willing to bet that family's tied into all this somehow as well. Poor Parkinson. It's going to be a hell of a ride for her when she finds out how far in bed her father and sister are with Yaxley. Jake knows what it feels like to realise your family's corrupt as fuck. 

He sighs, runs his hand through his hair. "So where does that leave us?" Jake looks over at Tom. This all feels overwhelming now, like they're Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, tilting helplessly at windmills that will never fall. "Because what I hear you saying is that we're trying to bring down a man who's controlling most of MACUSA behind the scenes, and how the _fuck_ are we going to do that, the two of us?"

Graves' smile is tight and thin. "That's why we're aiming for the top first." He lowers his voice, leans across the table. "Bring down Quahog's administration, and we cut off one avenue of control for Yaxley."

Jake's sceptical. "You've got dirt on Quahog?"

"I will." Graves' eyes narrow, and Jake hopes he never pisses Tom off. The man believes in scorched earth policies, after all. "And we're going to start by bringing what we know to Luxembourg, which is where you and those brilliant diplomatic connections of yours and Potter's are going to pay off." He reaches for his pint again. "You know Antonia Bucceri, I'm sure."

And Jake does, of course, as much as he wants to say otherwise. "Wizarding Rights Liaison for the ICW. Yeah, I know Toni." Jake's always liked her, really, even though she has the reputation for being difficult. Toni's not the sort you want on your back if you're doing something that might violate one of the myriad humanitarian treaties the ICW's put in place over the years.

Graves nods, his gaze sharp as it sweeps across Jake's face. "I want you to arrange a meeting with her as soon as you can. We're going to get our foot in the door with Ms Bucceri, see if we can escalate concern amongst the Luxembourg leadership that MACUSA might be going rogue. Rattle some cages, that sort of thing."

"What do you expect them to do?" Jake drums his fingers against the side of his pint glass. "Sanction MACUSA? That's never bothered our side before. It's not as if Quahog's going to listen to a damn thing the Supreme Mugwump says." 

"But the _New York Ghost_ will," Graves says, his voice even. "And the _Boston Bugle_. And the _Philadelphia Daily Spectre_ ." He crosses his arms over his chest, settling back in his chair. "All the wizarding papers of record will pick up on it, especially the liberal ones, and we need that one chink in the diplomatic armour to work with. It won't be easy, but we can pull that smug Connecticut bastard down, and once he's gone, Yaxley's easier to go after."

Jake considers for a long moment. "It's a big risk." He eyes Graves. "And it might not work. You're counting on the American wizarding public to give a shit about any of this. They might not."

"Maybe." Graves looks out the window, watching the blurs of colours pass by them. He's silent for a breath, and then he glances back at Jake. "I've got someone--a few of them, actually--digging up dirt on Sam. Mel still has her contacts, and they're pissed as hell that she was fired. It'll take a bit longer, but I expect to get some info soon. Same on the Auror side. Wilkinson might be in charge now, but I've people still loyal to me." He raises an eyebrow. "And so do you." At Jake's puzzled frown, Graves shakes his head. "Jesus, Durant. Martine Boucher would cut a man for you. She's helping us out with what she can."

And Jake stills, his fingers curled around the mostly empty pint glass. "She'll be deported if she's caught." Or worse, Jake thinks. Look at how Malfoy's disappeared, after all. 

"She knows." Graves looks at him, his gaze steady. "She wants to do this. For us." He hesitates, then adds, "For you." It's a twist of the knife that Tom knows will work; Jake can tell by the look on his face.

"Fucking hell, Tom, you're a bastard." Jake closes his eyes, his heart sinking. It was one thing when he'd been rash enough to agree to do this. But now Martine's involved, and he knows she can't go back to Quebec, knows how much she wants to stay away from her family. "Goddamn it," he says finally, and when he looks at Graves, the man's just regarding him with a calm expression on his face. "We're all going to go down for this, you know."

"Probably," Graves agrees. He meets Jake's gaze. "But I don't want my kids to grow up in a country that a shithead like Aldric Yaxley controls. I don't want anyone's kids to, Jake." His face is troubled. "And with Wilkinson in charge now, the whole fucking Yaxley family's practically untouchable now. Legally, at least." Graves scrapes a fingernail across the stained wood of the pub table between them. Fuck only knows what filth comes off it. "So if we bring them down in the court of public opinion, that's at least something, yeah?" He wipes his hand on a paper napkin. "It's a start."

It could be. "He'll do everything he can to destroy us," Jake says quietly. 

"Expect so." Graves doesn't seem overly concerned. "But if we don't try to stop him, who will?"

No one. Jake's fully aware of that. He sighs and picks up his glass, draining the last of the beer from it before setting it back down with a thump. "You know Eddie's running around with Rodolphus Lestrange."

Graves just looks at him. "Your brother's a goddamn idiot." It's more a statement of fact than a condemnation, Jake knows, but it irks Jake nevertheless.

"That's beside the point." Jake doesn't like anyone else pointing out how fucking stupid Eddie can be sometimes. "If I do this, I want immunity for him." He meets Graves' gaze.  
"However this all ends up. Eddie thinks he's doing something right for once, and I don't want him to end up in fucking Oudepoort for it."

He thinks Graves is going to object at first, but then Tom shrugs and nods. "Fine. We bring Yaxley and Quahog down, and I'll make sure he's not prosecuted and the FBCV keeps him off their radar for a whole year afterwards. Good enough?"

Jake's surprised at the concession. "I could live with that." So could Eddie, for a year at least. Jake doesn't want to think what exactly Eddie might do during those twelve months. Jake knows it's too much to hope that he'd settle down, find a job that didn't skirt--or step right over--the limits of the law.

Graves holds out a hand, and Jake takes it. He can feel the spark of the vow taking effect, warming their skin where it's pressed together. "You've got my word."

And Jake relaxes back against his bench. "I'll owl Toni tonight." He doesn't know what Blaise is going to say about all this. Probably blow up at him, but Jake would rather him do that than for them to keep up with this cool disregard Blaise seems to have put in place between the two of them. Unless he wants sex, at least, and Jake's not half-irritated by that. 

"Right." Graves glances down at his watch. "I better be getting back home. Mel wants me to walk down to the school with her to pick up the girls this afternoon." He looks up at Jake, his face worried. "You're all right with all this, then?"

Jake's not, but what's he going to say? "A man's got to do what a man's got to do," he manages to get out finally, but he knows Tom sees past his bravado. He shakes his head. "Look, I know what I'm getting myself into, just like you do. And you're right. If we don't do something, no one will." Jake just wishes he didn't have a prickle in his belly, the one that tells him exactly what a fucking bad idea all of this is. 

Graves pushes his chair back. "If you change your mind, you can always tell me to fuck off," he says, but Jake knows he can't. Not really. Graves' eyes are kind. "And a word of advice?"

What the hell. "Sure," Jake says, and he knows he sounds flippant. He's too tired to care.

"Talk to Zabini." Graves stands, picking up his pint glass as he does. Jake looks up at him in surprise, and Graves gives him a faint smile. "I'm not an idiot, Jake," he says, his voice gentle. "You're gone on that boy, more so even than you were with Potter, and if you're going to do something like this, you need to include him in all your decisions. I'm not taking any step without Mel knowing. You shouldn't either."

Jake looks away. "It's not that easy."

"Yeah," Graves says. "It is. If you care about the man."

That hurts, Jake thinks. Deep and raw and painful. He doesn't answer; Graves sighs, reaches across the table to squeeze Jake's shoulder, quick and hard. 

"You'll figure it out." Graves drops his hand, steps back, looking a bit embarrassed. "Let me know when you've set something up with Antonia."

"I will," Jake manages to say, and he watches as Graves walks away. "Goddamn it," Jake murmurs, and he looks at the reflection of his face in the wavy glass of the window panes. "What the hell have you gotten yourself into, man?"

To be honest, Jake doesn't have a fucking clue.

***

The shop's been quiet for most of the day to Ron's relief. Sure, Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes makes most of its money during the Hogwarts hols, but it means crowded aisles, irritated parents, and loud teenagers--the latter of whom Ron usually enjoys up until the last week of August when they start to wear on his nerves.

He shifts on his stool behind the counter, rolling his shoulders a bit as he goes over the sales ledger for the past month. They'd done quite well, actually, better than any other start-of-term rush in the past few years, and when combined with the numbers from the Hogsmeade store, Ron's rather pleased. It's exactly what he needs for his meeting with Gringotts next week; he and George are trying to raise capital to open up another shop on the Continent, either Paris or Berlin. Maybe both. Ron still needs to sift through the research data to quantify which location would be best. It still surprises him sometimes that he has a head for business, but somehow he almost instinctively knows what their next move should be, the way he does when he's studying a chessboard. Three years ago George had pushed for the Hogsmeade shop, but Ron hadn't felt they were ready yet and had insisted they hold off a bit longer, leading to one of their biggest fights. But sure enough, a year and a half later, Zonko's had sold out to them, letting the Wheezes take over an existing shop and clientele. Even George had admitted Ron had been right, albeit a bit grudgingly. 

Still, Ron has to give George credit for being the creative heart behind Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes. Ron might be good with the money--very, _very_ good with it--but it's George who knows exactly which products the kids will go for each season. Together, they make a great team, Ron thinks, and they both have the Gringotts accounts now to prove it. 

Ron closes the ledger. He's been trying to talk George into computerising all their data, but George hasn't been keen on the idea. He's too afraid that his experimentation in the back room will interfere with the Muggle electronics, no matter how many times Ron's told him that Kevin Entwhistle's been designing a system that can use Muggle components that are adapted to magical energy fields. But that's an argument best left for later, Ron supposes. Right now they just have to finalise the Gringotts paperwork for the Continental loan, and the shop has almost a quarter-million Galleons riding on that. 

He stretches, his neck cracking a little as he bends it from side to side. It's nearly half-two now; another three hours before he can close up the shop. Ron idly thinks about doing it anyway; on a Thursday afternoon in the first week of September, he doubts they'll have any more customers come through. But George isn't back from the Diagon Shopkeeper's Association lunch yet, so there's no sense in even thinking about it until then. Ron's avoided the meetings lately; he hasn't been able to stomach the rising rhetoric about Death Eaters in their midst. It's all bollocks, really. Not that Ron doubts there are still Death Eater sympathisers around. He's not that thick, and he knows how easy it'd be for them to hide away, to claim to be reformed or to have seen the error of their ways. Maybe some of them have; Ron knows Malfoy and his mum don't hold the same beliefs they had eight, ten years ago. War changes people, makes them reevaluate what's important. But Ron thinks it's bloody stupid of everyone to be flapping around like flustered chickens in a henhouse over something that's not likely to happen. Lestrange showing up in Diagon in a full, murderous rage, for example. Ron knows enough from Hermione and Harry to realise that Lestrange has a plan, an end goal, and an attack like that doesn't seem to be part of it. Sure, that had happened during the war, but it'd mostly been the more idiotic Death Eaters trying to impress Voldemort from what Ron could see. Lestrange, mad as he may be, is still smart enough not to try something that stupid. Not now, at least. 

Ron glances at the glass-paned door; there's no one in the street at the moment, so he slips out from behind the counter and goes to the toilet in the back for a quick piss. He's only just buttoned up his flies and turned on the tap to wash his hands when he hears the jangle of bells on the door. 

"Out in a moment," Ron calls, running his hands beneath the cool water. He flicks them dry, wiping them on his jeans as he steps back out into the shop. 

George looks up from the ledger. "No worries," he says. "It's just me." He has that look on his face that never bodes well, Ron realises. The one that's drawn and angry, the one that means he's thinking about Fred again. 

"Everything all right?" Ron keeps his voice light. It's been like tiptoeing around a powder keg with George lately. Part of it is the lack of sleep in the three weeks since little Fredlet's been born; part of it's the memories of their brother that are being stirred up again. Ron had thought it a terrible idea, naming the baby after Fred, but Angelina and George had both insisted on it. Ron isn't so certain it's honouring Fred as much as it is holding on to him in a way Ron doesn't think is really healthy for any of them. But only Hermione had agreed with him, and Ron knows not to press the issue with any of his family now. 

"It's fine," George says. His hair needs cutting again; that's always how Ron knows things are getting worse. Ron wishes George would go to a Mind Healer, but he's more stubborn about that than Harry. Everything's always fine with George, until it isn't, and Ron worries about his brother more than he'll admit. George has always been more fragile than he'd let on, hiding that vulnerability behind a prankster's attitude and a big personality. Fred had always helped keep George afloat when his uncertainties had started to rise up again; since Fred's been gone, George hasn't had that anchor. Ron's tried, and so has Bill as he can, but they'll never be Fred. So they try to pretend with George that he's all right, even when it's obvious that he's not, even when they can see George and Angelina still so wrapped up in their own grief and loss. It can't be much longer before they both implode, Ron's sure, but he can't bear to think about what that might do to George right now. 

Ron squeezes George's shoulder as he passes by. "Ledger's looking good," he says. "I'd say we'll have a good meeting with Gringotts next week."

George just nods. He flips a page in the ledger, frowns down at it for a moment before he exhales. His hand shakes a bit as he moves to the next page, and Ron bites his lip, trying not to ask about it. "We have some unspent funds in the shop upkeep account," George says aftera moment, his finger dragging down a column of figures.

"I thought I'd roll that over to the next fiscal quarter," Ron says. "We've been talking about making some structural modifications to the Hogsmeade shop, and I'd like to pad that out a bit more."

"We should use it to hire a ward-setter," George says, turning the ledger page again. He doesn't look at Ron. "Beef up what we have here around the shop since an attack will probably happen in Diagon, not Hogsmeade."

Ron sighs. "Our wards are fine, George--"

The ledger slams shut with a loud slap of paper against paper. "We're going to hire someone." The look George gives Ron is almost vicious. "There are verified alerts about Death Eater activity going around--"

"Says who?" Ron's tired of this rubbish. "The wankers at the Shopkeeper's Association? Have you lost your mind, George? If any such thing was happening, you don't think Hermione or Harry would warn us?"

George turns on him. "Harry's compromised, and you know it, what with him and Malfoy--"

"The Malfoy who also works for Hermione?" Ron's voice rises. "You are absolutely wrong about this--"

"He's defected, hasn't he?" George's eyes are too bright, too glittering. "Isn't that why Harry's half-mental lately? That's what everyone's saying, you know. That Malfoy's joined forces with Lestrange. Family bonds and all that."

Ron just looks at his brother, his heart sinking. No one's supposed to know about Malfoy. "He's on an assignment," he says after a moment, but he knows that sounds weak.

George throws a scornful glance his way. "Right." He presses his mouth together, exhales. "We're adding to the wards, and I've promised funding help to the other shopkeepers as well. If the Ministry's not going to add Auror protection, we'll do it ourselves." He sounds grim. "It's not as if most of us don't know how to cast a defensive spell or two ourselves. We went through the sodding war, after all."

And Ron can only imagine how that will turn out. "Because all we need is some innocent person being killed when one of you lot decide they're a Death Eater."

His brother's jaw tightens. "It won't be an issue, will it, when the Registry passes. We'll know exactly who to keep out of our shops--"

"Who to discriminate against, you mean," Ron snaps. "Fucking Merlin, George. The way that damned act is written people like Andromeda Tonks will have to register because of her sisters--"

"Maybe she shouldn't have taken that bitch Narcissa Malfoy under her roof then," George says, his voice low and raw. 

Ron doesn't even recognise his brother any longer. "You weren't like this before," he says, and his heart feels heavy and sore in his chest. "It's been eight years, George. You have to let Fred go."

George's lip trembles; he looks away. "Nice that you want to forget him."

"That's not what I said." Ron takes a step towards George; George pulls away, moving so the counter's between them. Ron breathes out, and he wonders when they lost his brother so badly, whether there was anything any of them could have done to help. "But he's dead, and you can't keep hating people--"

"So you want me to cosy up to them, like you and Harry have, do you?" George's face twists in anger and grief. "Fuck that, Ron. At least Percy and I see them for what they are--hateful, vicious beasts who'll keep doing this again and again until we stop them---"

Ron slaps his hand against the countertop, and George falls silent, breathing hard. "You don't have the right to decide that, George. None of us do." He threads his fingers through his hair, looking at his brother. "I know this is because of Angelina and the Fredlet--"

George looks away, his mouth twisting down. "As if you'd know anything about what it's like to have a child."

And that nearly slams the breath out of Ron. He grips the edge of the counter, unable to look at his brother. Silence stretches out between them, raw and jagged, a perilous precipice that they stand on either side of. Ron swallows, his own grief welling up in him, one he thought he'd already dealt with. 

"I could have," Ron says after a moment, and his voice sounds rough and thick in the quiet of the shop. "February a year ago." He stares down at his hands, flattened out on the countertop, the gold of his wedding band shining dully in the light from the lamp floating above them. "Hermione and I…" He stops, the ache almost overwhelming him. "We didn't tell anyone because the miscarriage happened in the first six weeks. Hermione said it's like that sometimes--"

"More than you'd think," George says quietly, and Ron looks up at him then. George shrugs, glances away, but Ron can see his own grief etched into George's face. "Angelina and I went through that too." He hesitates, then says, "You didn't tell Harry?"

Ron shakes his head. "He was in Luxembourg, and it seemed…" Ron doesn't know how to explain. Harry'd been living his own life back then, caught up with Jake and his diplomatic work, and Ron hadn't wanted to talk about it. He'd just told Harry that they'd decided to stop trying for a baby for a while; Harry hadn't pushed. "We were fine, Hermione and me." Except they weren't, not entirely. They'd stopped talking for a few weeks, both of them lost in their own feelings, until Hermione had crawled up beside him on the sofa one night and told him that it just wasn't time yet, that maybe they had other things to do first. Somehow that had helped. But it'd still taken them over a year to broach the subject of trying again, and Ron thinks they're both terrified.

George doesn't say anything for a long moment, and then he sighs. "I'm sorry." 

"It's all right." Ron rubs his hands over his face. "Just don't throw that at me, yeah?"

"All right." George's shoulders slump. He leans against the counter. "I'm frightened, Ron," he says finally. "I know you all think it's mad that Angie and I married, but…" He hesitates, then sighs again. "We know what each other feels. And maybe I'm her replacement for Fred, sure, but she understands in a way I don't think the rest of you do." He looks up at Ron, his face open and worn. "If I lost her and Freddy, I don't know what I'd do." His voice cracks, and he looks away, biting his lip hard enough to leave a dent in it. 

Ron doesn't know what to say. He reaches across the counter, lays his hand over his brother's. He thinks George might pull away, but instead George turns his palm over, lets his fingers curl around Ron's. They stand there for a moment, their hands a warm grip together. "I know you're afraid," Ron says quietly. "We all are, what with Lestrange running around." Ron can't tell George the whole of it, the parts that keep him up at night, worrying about the reach that a man like Aldric Yaxley has throughout the States, maybe even into Britain. "But this Registry--"

"It's the only thing we have," George says, and he meets Ron's gaze. Ron can see the resignation in George's face, and he knows nothing he says will change his brother's mind. "Look at where we are, Ron. The Ministry's falling apart; Luxembourg's threatening our autonomy; Azkaban can't even keep prisoners from escaping. And what with Harry shagging Malfoy, I don't trust him to have our best interests at heart any longer--"

"Harry's not responsible for all of us." Ron hates the expectations everyone seems to put on Harry, the way they expect him to continue to save them all from whatever bloody stupidity they've mired themselves in now. "He never was, George."

George doesn't answer. He shifts behind the counter, pulls his hand from beneath Ron's. "We have to protect ourselves," he says. "I know you don't agree, and that's fine. Believe what you want to believe." He looks up at Ron, his hair falling over one eye. He pushes it off his forehead. "And if you need a safe place when it all goes to shit, I won't turn you away. I promise you that." 

"Thanks," Ron says, a bit thickly. He folds his arms across his chest, feeling lost and a bit adrift. He wishes Hermione were with him right now. She'd know what to say, know how to convince George he's wrong about all this. Ron doesn't feel smart enough for that. He rubs his fingertips over the cotton of his shirtsleeves, feeling the bony angle of his elbows beneath them. "You know Kingsley's doing his best--"

"Maybe that's not enough any more," George says. "I'm starting to think we need someone stronger as Minister." He sounds tired; his face is pale beneath his freckles. Ron knows his brother's fighting off another round of depression; he can see it in the bruised shadows beneath his eyes, in the thinness of his hunched shoulders. George is trying to hide it, probably from all of them, Angelina included. 

Ron wants to reach out to his brother again, wants to take his hand, to hold it until George comes back to himself. Instead he says, perhaps stupidly, "So you think someone like Marchbanks fits the bill?"

George shrugs, takes a step back from the counter. "I'm not saying she doesn't."

"You can't be serious." Ron knows he should shut his gob. He can tell by the way George's mouth is drawing down, the flatness of George's expression. But he can't stop himself, mostly because he _knows_ George is wrong, and he's desperate for George to see that. "She's a complete nutter who thinks we ought to be out of the ICW--"

"And what's wrong with that?" George's voice rises. "Percy's worked with them, and he says they're ridiculous--"

"Percy's a complete wanker," Ron shouts. "You can't be listening to him, George--you're the one who taught me that!"

The two of them stand opposite one another, angry, fists clenched. Ron wants to hit something--the wall, the counter, his sodding brother, he doesn't care which. All he knows is that he's losing George, and he's already lost Fred, and he _hates_ this, hates the way Griselda bloody Marchbanks is tearing his family apart, the same way she's ripping at the seams of his country, and for what? Her own grasp at power? Ron can't see any other reason behind it, to be honest. 

George breaks first. "I can't do this with you," he says, and he reaches for the jacket he's hung on the coathook beside the door to his workroom. "Close the fucking shop if you want. I'm going home to my wife and baby."

And that stings more than Ron will ever admit. He looks away from his brother, refuses to watch as George shrugs his jacket on and strides out of the shop, letting the door thud shut behind him. 

Ron's left alone. 

The shop's silent. Empty. The half-open blind on the door still sways where George had slammed it.

"Fuck," Ron says, and he slumps against the counter, his face buried in his hands. These arguments never get better; George only digs his heels in deeper and deeper, and Ron doesn't know what to do any more. He's afraid one day they'll say something that they can never come back from, something that will destroy what fragile bits of a relationship he and George still have. 

Ron draws in a ragged breath, then drops his hands onto the counter, staring blankly at the wall behind it. There's a calendar hung there, still caught on August, a peaceful field in the Cotswolds rising up over the grid of days, the grasses rustling in a faint breeze, green leaves rippling in the tree branches framing the photograph. Ron wishes he were there, with the sun on his face, the smell of new-mown hay drifting towards him. He closes his eyes, exhales. 

The door jangles again, and Ron turns around, half-hoping to see George framed in the doorway. Instead, it's a mother with her primary school son trailing behind her. 

"Hullo," she says cheerfully. "It's Roger's birthday on Sunday, and I was hoping you might have any Headless Hats and Happy Bubble Boxes that we might use for party favours?"

Ron wants to shout at her to leave, to tell her he's not in the mood for that sort of tripe. But he pulls himself back, makes himself smile and nod, and say, "This shelf right here should have everything you need."

Life goes on, however badly it falls apart around you, he thinks. Ron just hopes he can meld it all back together before it's too far gone, hopes that some sort of emotional Spello-tape exists to fix what's broken. For him. For George. 

For them all.

***

At almost half-five Harry's still sat in his office, papers spread out across his desk. He stares at them blankly, barely taking them in. They're forms he needs to sign, requisitions he ought to approve, but he can't focus properly. His skin itches, like it's too tight, too stretched, and he wants a drink. He'd given the bottle of firewhisky to Zabini this morning, though, asked him to get rid of it. Harry's already checked Zabini's desk, and it's gone, much to his relief and, if he's honest with himself, dismay. But he'd sworn to Hermione and Ron the other night when he'd tumbled through their Floo that he wouldn't drink, not the way he'd been, at least, and Harry wants to try to keep that promise to his best friends.

Even though he's slept the past two nights at their flat, curled up in the small bed in their spare room, Harry doesn't really want to go back there tonight. Not that they wouldn't welcome him with open arms. Harry knows they would, but it's hard for him to see them together as a couple, to watch the way they move in tandem, almost without thought, to see the small smiles and the quick touches they share when they think Harry doesn't notice. But he does, and it makes him think of Draco, makes that deep ache inside widen, abraded and sore in ways Harry doesn't always expect. 

The quill in Harry's hand falls to the desk, startling him. He looks down at the smeared ink on one of the requisition papers and swears softly, trying to blot it away with the cuff of his sleeve. Kreacher will shriek about having to clean it off, but Harry doesn't care. The black ink stains the white cotton, and Harry just rubs at it, getting more on his thumb as he does. 

"Fuck," Harry says, and he pushes his chair away from the desk. 

No one's left in the incident room when he walks into it. Harry's not surprised; Parkinson had planned to stop by St Mungo's to check on Whitaker and then force her father into going to supper with her at Althea's request--Mitchell appears to be driving her mental again, from what Parkinson said--and Zabini'd knocked on Harry's door almost a quarter-hour ago to tell him he was headed home as well. Back to Jake, Harry assumes, and that thought makes him irrationally angry. He knows it's not Zabini's fault that Jake's here and Draco's not, but Harry's heart doesn't seem to care at times, whatever his head might say. He resents that he's the one who's sat here hurting, he's the one who's lost his partner, whilst Zabini and Jake are twined together each bloody night. He wonders what would have happened if Zabini had been the last one through the portal. Or Jake. What if Harry and Draco had made it through together, what if Draco hadn't been so bloody, sodding reckless--

Harry slams his fist into the wall, hard and fast, and he's surprised when it goes through. He pulls it free; there's a small hole beside the door, white bits of plasterboard crumbling down onto the nubbly carpet. Blood's smeared across his knuckles where two of them have split, and Harry just looks at them, barely feeling the sting of the pain. He breathes out, tries to pull himself back together. He can feel the hot prickle on the back of his neck, across the surface of his palms, the one that he's started to realise comes just before he sets something aflame. Harry presses his hands to the cool surface of the door, exhales slowly, deeply. 

The prickle starts to fade. 

Freddie'd be proud, he thinks, and then a twinge of guilt goes through him. He'd also promised Hermione he'd ring Freddie up, see if she'd talk to him via firecall since he can't leave London. He needs to do that. Harry's been putting it off, telling himself that work should come first, but it's already the end of Thursday. Tonight, he thinks. He'll leave a message on her answerfloo, ask her to reply by owl. 

Harry makes his way down the hall to the toilet. It's empty when he goes in, and he locks himself in a stall for a moment, leaning against the metal side, just letting himself breathe. It feels oddly safe, this tiny cubicle, barely two feet long, and Harry thinks about just staying in here for a bit. Hiding away. But that's ridiculous and he knows it. He unlocks the door, steps out to the sinks where he washes his hands with soap and cool water, watching the last traces of blood and ink swirl down the drain. He leans in, pushes his glasses up onto his forehead, then splashes water across his face. It's cold, bracing. 

In the mirror Harry catches a glimpse of himself, his face thin, the dark circles beneath his eyes pronounced. There's scruff on his jaw; he hasn't bothered to shave lately, and it's starting to thicken. Harry doesn't mind, really, even if it itches a little. He pats his face dry with a paper towel, bins it, a wave of helplessness washing over him. Harry grips the edge of the sink, waits for it to pass. He's getting used to these roiling emotions, to the sense of panic that comes with not being able to do a bloody thing--to find Draco, to stop the madness that's starting to crest in the political machinations throughout the Ministry. Harry knows Kingsley's trying on all fronts, but what faith he's had in the Minister is starting to falter. Not through any fault of Kingsley's. But Harry can tell when a groundswell is coming politically. He's spent enough years in the corridors of the ICW to be able to sense those moments. And Harry's worried, more than he can explain to anyone else. What's happening outside the Ministry, the dissatisfaction, the upheaval, the people demanding change--all that's going to hit like a bloody tsunami, and Harry doesn't think Kingsley's ready for that.

To be honest, he's not certain any of them are. 

Harry pushes himself away from the sink. He only sways a bit on his feet before he finds his centre, regains his balance. He stares at his reflection, hollow-eyed and grim. There has to be something he can do, he thinks. Some way off putting brakes on this runaway train. 

When he leaves the toilet, he doesn't intend to make his way down to the Wizengamot level. But he can't go back to his office--or he won't, at least--not yet. Harry takes the stairs, telling himself that he's just in need of a bit of exercise. He keeps pretending he's just walking, just getting out of the suffocating confines of the DMLE and the Auror hallways until he's striding through the anteroom of an office suite, a tall, terribly thin young wizard jumping up from his desk. 

"Mr Potter, you can't--"

But Harry doesn't listen to him. He throws open the door of the inner office and walks in, slamming it closed behind him and warding it shut with a flick of his fingers. 

"We need to talk," he says over the pounding against the door frame and the muffled shouts of the assistant. 

Griselda Marchbanks looks up from the note she's writing. Diamond earrings sparkle in the light from her desk lamp, and her short salt-and-pepper hair's neatly curled around her face. "Inspector Potter," she says calmly. "I generally expect Geoffrey to set up meetings in my calendar. If you'd like to speak with him--"

"I'd rather do this now," Harry says, and he pulls out the chair opposite her desk. "May I?"

"Do I have a choice?" Marchbanks asks, but she gestures towards the chair with her quill. "Sit, if you must." She finishes writing as Harry settles into the chair. When she's finished, she lays the quill down, picks the note up, blowing on the ink to dry it, before folding it neatly, setting it aside. Only then does she look over at Harry. "Well," she says, her voice tart. "Go on."

Harry feels like a schoolboy sat in front of McGonagall's desk again. He shifts, moving his hands from the arms of the chair to his thighs, his back straightening. He clears his throat. "It's about the Registry Act--" He breaks off as Marchbanks heaves a heavy sigh. 

"I've been wondering how long it would take for you to bring this up again," she says, and she leans back in her chair, her arms folded across her chest, the blue tweed of her suit jacket stretched across her narrow shoulders. Three thin gold bangles shine from her wrist. "I believe the last time we spoke on this matter, you made your opinion on the Registry perfectly clear, so unless you've come to tell me you've changed your mind and are in support of the legislation?" She pauses, eyeing Harry speculatively. 

"No," he says, and Marchbanks doesn't look surprised. 

"Then I'm afraid we've nothing to talk about, Inspector Potter." Marchbanks sits forward. "And I'm quite the busy woman as of late, so if you'll forgive me…" Her gaze flicks towards the door. "I'd rather like to have my office to myself again."

Harry presses the heels of his palms into his thighs, splaying his fingers across the light wool of his trousers. They're a pale tan against the dark charcoal, and his nails are a fright, bitten down to the quick the way they are. Draco would be horrified with him, Harry thinks. He looks back up at Marchbanks. "You can't go through with it. Not the way you have it written. You know innocent people are going to be caught in this legislation, that it's going to hurt families, destroy careers--"

"They ought to have considered that before they threw their lot in with You-Know-Who, then, oughtn't they?" Marchbanks' tone is sharp, prim, but the look she gives Harry is even. Almost calculated, he thinks. It unnerves him. This isn't a woman who's concerned about the effect of her rhetoric on people. 

"You just want power," Harry says, his temper flaring. "That's all this is to you--a way to make yourself important--"

Marchbanks rolls her eyes. "Don't be ridiculous."

Harry's jaw tightens. He sits forward. "Then tell me why you're pushing this shit piece of legislation."

"Someone needs to be looking out for the people of this country." Marchbanks frowns at him. "Merlin knows Kingsley Shacklebolt's utterly incapable of doing so--"

Harry's half out of his seat at that. "You know damned well that's not true!" The note Marchbanks had set aside bursts into flame, and Marchbanks' eyes widen ever so slightly, but she doesn't look overly concerned.. A flick of her wand and the note Vanishes, only the faint scent of scorched paper lingering. 

"Uncontrollable magic, Inspector Potter," Marchbanks says slowly. "I've heard rumours that you'd been setting fire to things again. Including the Minister's office?" Harry looks away, unable to deny it as much as he might want to, and Marchbanks makes a soft, quiet noise in the back of her throat. "Oh, dear," she murmurs. "As I recall, that sort of unpredictable spellwork would make you ineligible for Auror field work."

And Harry sinks back into the chair. "It's not uncontrollable," he manages to say, his voice tight, and Marchbanks' eyebrow goes up. 

"I see," she says, and Harry's rather afraid she does. Merlin, but he's a bloody idiot sometimes. Draco would berate him for being so open, for not lying to her face. He knows he ought to have, but Harry's never been good at deception, not really. At least that's what Hermione tells him every time he tries to lie to her. He draws in an unsteady breath, tries to calm the sharp prickling across his skin. Marchbanks just watches him, her expression inscrutable. 

Harry looks away. He rubs his hands across the carved wooden arms of the chair; they're rough against his palms. A broken spring in the upholstered seat pokes into his hip and he shifts ever so slightly. He bites his lip, curls his fingers over the edge of the chair as he sits forward again. His whole body feels tight, anxiety thrumming through him. He studies the stack of file jackets on Marchbanks' desk. They're labelled with Act acronyms, an almost unintelligible tangle of numbers and letters and dates. The thickest one has the Registry notation on it: _2006 - 4306A-MBX-HWTH-Registration of Death Eaters Act, c. 25._ He breathes out, tries not to set the damned thing on fire.

"I'm going to speak against it, you know." Harry looks up at her, and he knows the flush of his defiance must show on his face.

Marchbanks nods. "I had assumed, yes." Those bright blue eyes of hers are fixed on Harry's face. He wants to turn away, but he won't give her the satisfaction. She's silent for a moment, and then she sighs, rests her folded hands on her desk. "I have a great deal of respect for you, Inspector Potter. Both for what you endured eight years ago during the war and for your work not only with the Auror force but also as our representative to the ICW's law enforcement council. Please understand that I do mean that; it makes what I have to say that much more difficult for me."

"Noted." Harry eyes her. It's all rubbish, he knows, but if Marchbanks feels the need to qualify what she's saying, Harry won't challenge it. Perhaps she even believes it herself. "Which means?"

"Well." Marchbanks looks down at her hands, shifting them to twist the bangles around her wrist. Her fingers are long and elegant; the backs of her hands only just starting to show the signs of her age. She frowns, the wrinkles at the corners of her mouth deepening. "I am aware," she says finally, "of the relationship between yourself and Unspeakable Draco Malfoy."

Harry stills. He doesn't look away from the steady gaze she turns on him. It's not that he cares that she knows; for fuck's sake, he and Draco were planning on being open with their relationship when they came back to London anyway. Harry's stomach twists a bit at that thought. He doesn't know when--or if--that'll happen now. What he doesn't like is the way Marchbanks is looking at him, as if he's done something to be ashamed of. 

"I really don't see how that's any of your business," Harry says, and he wonders who told her. George, maybe. Or Percy. Outside of his team and Draco's family, the Weasleys are the only other people who know about him. Well, and Gawain, Harry supposes, but it's not likely he'd be gossiping with Griselda Marchbanks of all people. 

Or perhaps he would. Harry's not certain whom to trust any longer, if he's honest.

"I'm certain there are people who might be, shall we say, unsettled to know Our Saviour has been consorting with a known Death Eater," Marchbanks says, her voice smooth. 

"Former," Harry says almost automatically. "And Draco was cleared during the hearings. His record with the Aurors--"

"Is impeccable, yes." Marchbanks gives Harry a small smile that doesn't go any further than a faint curve of her lips. Her eyes are steely. Cold. "I'm aware. But I'm afraid Death Eaters often hide in plain sight, Inspector Potter. And however Unspeakable Malfoy may be attempting to clear his name now--whether he has you in his plans to assist with that or not--the fact remains that he took the Mark, which makes him an enemy of the British state."

Harry's half-certain she's lost her mind. "He mutilated his body to try to remove it!" Draco would kill him for saying that, Harry's certain, but he doesn't care right now. Harry won't have Marchbanks implying what she is about Draco. He presses his lips together, trying to keep his temper at bay. Giving his fury free rein--no matter how much he wants to at the moment--won't do any good. Harry knows that. But if Griselda Marchbanks thinks Harry won't defend Draco Malfoy to his last breath, she's a sodding fool. 

Marchbanks raises one shoulder in a shrug. "Marked is Marked. The magical oath one takes to call such a bond into existence never truly fades, and I'm afraid Unspeakable Malfoy, if I may be so bold to say, sold his soul to the Devil himself when he allowed the Dark Lord to call him into the ranks of his faithful." Her face is grim, terrible. "Youthful mistake or not, it's one we can't overlook. Not when we want to keep our borders safe." Her mouth twists, and the faded beauty of her face slips away for a moment, giving Harry a glimpse behind her cultivated facade, the briefest flash of an angry, cruel woman. "Those people are beasts, Inspector. They give no value to human life; they seek no compromise with magical society as we would like to mold it. They're a plague on our shores that we must stamp out if we wish our society to grow into the magical powerhouse I know it can be."

And Harry doesn't know what to say--or if there's any way he could tell her she's off her nut. Marchbanks' eyes gleam with the fervour of the true believer, and Harry's starting to think this really isn't just about power for her. She hates Death Eaters, he realises. They've lost any status as human beings to her; she sees them as nothing more than pests to be eliminated. 

"You're wrong," Harry says finally, his voice catching in the back of his throat. He swallows, breathes in deeply as he lifts his chin, meets Marchbanks' gaze. "That's not the Draco I know, and you can't go about judging entire families for the actions of a few foolish wizards and witches. People can get caught up in the moment, but they can change, too. I've seen it happen, and what you're saying here goes against everything our society stands for--"

"I'm protecting our society!" Marchbanks is on her feet now, and half-around her desk before Harry realises. He pushes himself out of his chair, faces her down. He won't let her have the upper hand here, won't let her treat him like some disobedient schoolboy. 

"Under whose authority?" Harry flings back at her, and Marchbanks laughs, incredulously. 

"Really?" Marchbanks gives him a pitying look. "The people of Britain who elected me, of course." She holds her hands out, palms up. "They entrusted me to uphold not only our laws but our livelihoods, our traditions, our social order. And if I have to take you down for our greater national good, Inspector Potter, I will. Trust me on that." Her face is set, her voice vicious. "Speak out if you feel you must, but the moment you do, my gloves will be off. I hope you're prepared for that. I've no qualms in informing the British public that Our Once-Golden Boy has feet of clay."

They look at each other, both quivering with anger. 

"I'm a woman in a man's world," Marchbanks says after a moment. "You all think I'm weak, that I won't play dirty Quidditch if I have to. But I'm telling you now that I'll do whatever's required to get this Act passed and that you will not stop me in this endeavour. Do I make myself clear?"

"Perfectly," Harry spits out. His fists are clenched at his sides. There's no sense in telling her she'll have the fight of the century on her hands, that Harry has nothing left to lose in his attempt to bring her down. He suspects she already knows that. The danger of Griselda Marchbanks is that she's canny and far from a fool. But she's also underestimating Harry. He's spent years watching the diplomatic machinations in the corridors of the ICW. Harry might be the reckless Gryffindor Draco accuses him of being, but he knows when to hold his cards close, knows how to play the backroom games. He looks at Marchbanks for a long moment, then nods curtly. "In that case, I've nothing more to say, I suppose."

He's halfway to the door when Marchbanks says, "I know he's missing."

And Harry stops, his back stiff, the prickling across his skin intensifying. He doesn't say anything. Doesn't turn around. He can't. 

He won't.

"And I know that you've been looking for him, trying everything you can to find him." Marchbanks is closer; Harry can hear her move behind him, can hear the soft tap of her heels against the carpet. "We could reach a compromise, Inspector Potter. A tit for tat, if you will."

Harry's fingernails dig into his palms. She's showing her hand, he thinks. She knows Harry has influence, power that she could tap. He waits, curious to see what Marchbanks suggests. "A deal of my own with the Devil, I suppose?" 

Marchbanks snorts. "Not quite. Although I do appreciate the barb, as simple and witless as it might be." She's silent for a moment, and Harry can almost feel her sizing him up before she says, "Speak out in favour of the Registry, and I'll promise you every resource the Wizengamot has available to find Unspeakable Malfoy and bring him home." Harry looks back at her then, and Marchbanks smiles at him, cold and thin. "To be Registered, of course, which means, I'm afraid, your relationship with him would be at an end, given that such unions would be forbidden under the Act." Her head tilts ever so slightly, and Harry knows she's studying his reaction, considering what he might say. He's seen that same calculating expression on countless politicians over the years. "Not my provision, I might add, but one suggested by several other MWs in the course of the drafting of the Act. But I could point out that, regardless, young Malfoy would be safe, so perhaps such a sacrifice would be worthwhile." The look she gives Harry is questioning. "Particularly if you claim to care for him."

And for a moment Harry's tempted. He'd do almost anything to find Draco, to make sure he came back from wherever he is safe and sound, even if it meant not having Draco in his life any more. But Harry also knows Draco would be furious with him for making such a bloody stupid deal, and with good reason. Besides, Harry doesn't have the right to implode their relationship like that. Not without Draco being consulted, and Harry knows even if Draco were standing beside him right now he'd never agree to Marchbanks' terms. Not even to save his own skin. Draco wouldn't do that to them; Harry sure as fuck won't. He draws in a slow breath and meets Marchbanks' gaze. 

"Fuck off, you bigoted old hag," Harry says, enunciating as clearly as he can so Marchbanks knows exactly how furious he is at her suggestion, and then he's reaching for the door as Marchbanks sputters behind him. 

Harry strides through the anteroom, ignoring Geoffrey's icy glare, and he slams the outer door behind him, his whole body shaking with fury, just as the entire top of Geoffrey's desk bursts into flame. 

The alarms go off, loud and clanging, just as they had the day he'd set fire to Kingsley's drapes. Harry can smell the smoke drifting through the cracks in the doorway. He wishes he could give a damn, but he doesn't. Not even when other doors open, heads peek out to see what's happening. 

"Fire," Harry says, as calmly as he can, and then he's walking down the hall, whispers following behind him. He's fucked up, he knows that, and he's just made a dangerous enemy. 

But right now, at this moment, Harry really doesn't fucking care. Won't let himself, to be honest, and there's part of him that half-hopes the fire burns bright and hot and out of control, that it brings down this whole sodding building, taking the entirety of the Ministry with it, letting the British government have the chance to be reborn, like a phoenix from the cold ashes of a fiery grave.

Harry pushes the door to the stairwell open. Fuck what he promised Hermione and Ron. He's going to go home and drown himself in the biggest bottle of firewhisky he can find. 

With Draco gone, what else does he have to lose, after all?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, you can subscribe for Tales from the Special Branch updates [here on AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/series/661862) or follow me [on tumblr at femmequixotic!](http://femmequixotic.tumblr.com). I'm taking Special Branch asks there. 
> 
> The next chapter of Set Me Free will post on Sunday, July 15.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Althea comes home, Harry has an unexpected conversation, and Draco does laundry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Four is brought to you by the heat of mid-July and the tumult of vacation, moving, and travel!
> 
> Apologies for the one-day delay - Noe and I had unexpected family commitments over the weekend, wonderfully welcome but also rather time consuming. However, I hope this chapter gives fresh insight on events from different perspectives; change is coming in the world of the Special Branch—it’s just not clear yet from which quarter! 
> 
> Thanks as always to all you readers for sticking with this rollercoaster of a Drarry epic, to sassy-cissa for her forbearance, tact, and enthusiasm, and to noeon for never failing to cheerlead or find a way out of a bind.
> 
> P.S. This is a tad longer than I expected—once again, I thought I was writing a short chapter this week, lolz. Ah well...one day I'll learn. (Ha.) /0\

Althea's quiet as the mediwitch goes over her discharge notes. She's still not allowed back at work, not for another week at least. The tremors in her hands are better, but they're still noticeable, more so than she'd like to admit, if she's honest. Her father leans forward in his chair, nodding as the mediwitch flips the page in the paperwork to Althea's medication list. There are too many on there, Althea thinks as her gaze skims the column of potions. Ones for pain, ones for neural repair, ones for sedation at night, ones to fight against infections, even more to settle her trembling hands as much as possible. She smooths a shaking palm against her knee, the denim of her jeans scuffing across her skin. 

"You'll need a full dose of these for morning and night," Anna, the mediwitch, says, circling the first few potions with her quill. The ink is a bright emerald green. "The next two are just for evening, and the last two are as-needed. We'd prefer you not to have too many pain potions in your system, so the longer you can hold off on them, the better, but if you need pain relief, particularly for your headaches, you shouldn't hesitate to take a dose, O Stoic One." Her mouth quirks up in a smile. It's become a joke amongst the staff that Althea refuses most of her pain medications, but to be fair, Althea'd rather be alert than drugged up and sloppy. Maybe it's the Auror in her. Or maybe it's seeing her father struggle with drink. She drags her thumbnail down the grain of her jeans as Anna adds, "I'd really rather you not put your body through the stress of heavy pain, and Healer Mickelson agrees." Anna looks at Althea, her eyes kind, empathetic. "Just keep within the daily dosage limits I've written down for you on the labels, yes?"

"Understood." Althea's throat is dry. She licks her lips, reaches for the small glass of water still on her bed tray. The edge of the thin mattress presses into the back of her thighs as she shifts forward; her father reaches out, without hesitation, to steady her elbow before Althea can pull away. She hates these little moments of weakness that she still has. To cover, Althea downs the last little bit of lukewarm water in the glass; the tickle in her throat fades. It's been almost four weeks since she'd been admitted to St Mungo's; mid-September is only a few days away. The way Althea sees it, she ought to be right as bloody rain by now, but her body's still recovering. Neuromagical trauma can be like that sometimes, Mickelson had told her when she'd groused one day to him. And some bodies just take a bit more time for the potions and surgical charms to take effect. But Althea thinks he'd been hiding something from her, the way his eyes had slid to one side for just a moment, his gaze breaking from hers. Althea's seen that before in the interrogation room, in the Auror bullpen, in the Ravenclaw common room. Even in her father's bright blue gaze when he'd told her after they'd buried her mother that they'd both be all right alone. _We'll teach ourselves to be top-notch, you and me, won't we, pet?_ he'd asked her, with a smile that she'd known was too tight, too twisted to be real, and then he'd turned his head, and Althea'd realised she'd already begun to lose him too.

It takes a well-practised liar not to look away in a moment of untruth. Mitchell Whitaker's never been able to manage it, however much he's tried to protect her from himself. Althea sets the glass back down on the bed tray.

"We'll be careful," Mitchell says, and his hand slides up to Althea's shoulder. The press of his fingers hurts a bit, but Althea doesn't flinch. It'd upset her father to know he was causing her any pain. 

"Right we will." Althea gives him a faint smile, and her father's hand slips away. Althea tries not to inhale in relief. It's one of the things she hasn't told anyone about, not even Mickelson, this pain at being touched. They'd want to keep her longer, she knows, and Althea can't bear the thought of being cooped up in this awful ward one more moment than she has to be. They'd brought a cursed Auror up a few days ago, and she's been keeping Althea awake at night with her cries of pain. Althea knows she can't hide her own pain reaction forever, but there's a part of her that hopes it'll just fade away as her body heals. That's what she tells herself at least, and if she thinks it long and hard enough, maybe it'll be true. "We'll be fine."

Anna hesitates, then nods. She flips to another piece of parchment. "Then all I need is your signature, and we'll send you on your way." She sets the parchment on Althea's bed tray, pulling it closer to the edge of the mattress Althea's perched on, then holds her quill out. "Right on the line for me, love."

The quill's feather tickles Althea's skin, prickling across it as she settles it between her thumb and forefinger. Althea scribbles her name across the bottom of the parchment, Anna holding it steady for her. The green ink glows for a moment, then settles into a deep black scrawl. 

"And there you go." Anna beams over at her. "Done with us for the nonce, aren't you?"

If only she knew, Althea thinks, but then again, she suspects Anna does know. There can't be many people who aren't eager to make their way out of hospital, after all. 

"Won't say no to getting back into my life again," Althea says, pushing the bed tray away. She only wobbles slightly when she stands, and she stabilises herself before her father or Anna can help. 

"Just remember, no strenuous activity." Anna steps back, lets Althea move to the end of the hospital bed. "And Healer Mickelson's going to want to see you back here on the eighteenth--"

Althea cuts her off. "It's in my diary." Even though it's not, if she's honest. Althea hasn't used a proper diary in over a month. Not since she'd left London for Louisiana. She shifts on the balls of her feet, pushing the rubber soles of her trainers into the lino of the floor. Althea's starting to get antsy, a mad worry running through her that she'll be forced to stay if she can't get away. "Half-two." She thinks that's the time, and given Anna doesn't correct her, she must be right.

Mitchell picks up Althea's satchel. The bottles of potions they'd tucked in there clank softly against each other, and Althea hopes they don't break over her few changes of clothes. "I'll get her back here," he says to Anna, and then he leans in and squeezes the mediwitch's arm. "Good of you lot to take care of her though."

"She's a stubborn one," Anna says as they head towards the ward door. To be honest, Althea's surprised they've not forced her into one of the levitating chairs set beside the ward station, but then again, they've all been on her to walk as much as she can manage in recent days. Anna looks over at Althea with a faint smile, holding the door open for her. "It'll serve her well, I think."

Pansy's waiting by the stretch of Floos at the end of the hallway. She looks good in her short floral dress, shades of pink and navy blue with splotches of white amongst the roses, much more casual for this Sunday afternoon than the clothes Pansy wears during the work week. Her long legs are bare and lightly tanned, her toes polished a bright fuchsia between the white leather strips of her sandals, and her dark hair's loose, falling in soft waves over the thin straps of her dress. Althea suddenly feels grimy and rumpled by comparison in her beaten-up trainers, worn jeans and yellow-striped t-shirt, all too aware of the uneven shortness of her own badly cropped hairline. It surprises her. Althea's never been overly concerned about her appearance or the latest trends in fashion, but she has always liked to be tidy. She hadn't felt like this in the ward, she realises, and warmth rushes over her cheeks. It's being up and about near Pansy again, not lying in a hospital bed, and, really, Althea thinks she ought to be over this ridiculous pash by now. They're friends, and Althea's glad of that. Pansy's been her rock through all of this, stopping by to cheer Althea on the bad days and to coax Mitchell out of his grim despair when Althea hadn't been able to. It's been a long time since Althea's had a friend like that--at least one who was a woman. Maxie'd done that sort of thing for her, but things are still rough between them, a bit distant and uncomfortable, even though he'd come to see her in hospital a time or two. He'd done better with her father than with her, Althea thinks, and that makes her want to curl in on herself, to protect that soft little spot deep inside that Maxie sometimes gouges. 

And then Pansy turns, catches sight of them, Mitchell walking slowly beside Althea as she hobbles down the corridor. Pansy's face lights up, a smile curving her pink lips. "Have they let you go then?" she asks, and when Althea nods, Pansy claps her hands in delight. "Brilliant." She's already reaching for a pinch of Floo powder in one of the waist-high cauldrons beside the closest hearth. "Mother's waiting for us."

To be honest, Althea thinks this is an awful idea. But once the Healers had agreed to discharge Althea, Pansy had deemed Althea's flat too small and too bloody far away from anyone or any place useful, informing her in that autocratic Parkinson manner that it would be a medical travesty to send Althea home by herself to it. Mitchell had agreed, and before Althea could lodge a proper protest, her father and Pansy had concocted some ridiculous plan for Althea to take over Pansy's spare room--the one Malfoy had once had when he was sharing house with her. 

At a certain point, Althea's learned, it's useless to stand against the relentless swell of Parkinson determination. Particularly when Camilla Hirsch Parkinson has been enlisted. If she's honest, Althea's bloody terrified of Pansy's mother, and when she'd admitted as much, Pansy had--cheerfully, at that--told her that fear was probably the correct response to have when Camilla was around. 

None of which had set Althea's mind at ease. 

"I really can go to my own flat," Althea says, and she knows she sounds mulish. 

Pansy just gives her a look before glancing past Althea to Mitchell. "You've all the potions?"

Mitchell holds the satchel up. There's another soft clink that makes Althea wince. "We're good."

"Excellent." Pansy slips her hand into the crook of Althea's elbow. It hurts, but only for a moment. Still Pansy eyes Althea, her gaze searching her face as if she knows Althea's hiding her pain. 

"I'm fine," Althea says, breathing out slowly. "Just nervous." She tries to give Pansy a smile, but she thinks it comes out lopsided and weak. "Your mum, you know."

Pansy rolls her eyes. "Trust me, you've become her project now. She's been thrilled to have something to focus on that isn't my father at the moment." 

Or whatever Terry Parkinson's been up to, Althea suspects. Really, she's half-certain Pansy and her mother both are using Althea to avoid facing that particular minefield. But Althea understands, in her own way, and she lets Pansy draw her closer to the Floo.

The silver powder glitters through the air as Pansy tosses it onto the flames. They burst into shades of green, and Althea closes her eyes, draws in an uneven breath as Pansy calls out her address. Althea reaches out for her father's free hand, grips it tightly as they all three step into the wide hearth. She can hear her father's soft gasp as the flames curl around them, barely a tickle at first against Althea's bare ankles, just above the frayed edge of her trainers, and then they're spinning away, through the darkness of the Floo, and Althea squeezes her eyes tighter against the sudden sharp pain that blooms across her skin, burning throughout her nervous system, setting her muscles on fire. 

With a thump, they land, and Althea feels Pansy's hand steadying her. 

"Careful," Pansy says, and Althea exhales through the ache that's only just starting to fade away. Her fingers are clenched tight around her father's hand, her short nails digging into his wrist. Her eyes flutter open, and she's looking at him, at the stunned expression on his face, and she's forgotten how far he lives outside of this magical world of hers now. Things like this had been normal when her mother was alive; her father had gone through Floos before with them, mostly to Diagon, but sometimes to visit her mother's friends. 

"I forgot," Mitchell says after a moment. "I forgot what it felt like."

And Althea pulls him closer, ignoring the flash of pain as she presses herself against his chest. He's thinking of her mother. She knows that. How couldn't he be, when Althea is herself? She feels the warm huff of her father's breath against her ear, hears the quiet _Clio_ that he whispers. They stand together for a moment, father and daughter, the memory of their loss flooding through them. 

There's a soft sound, the barest clearing of a throat, and Althea pulls back, looking over at the woman who stands in the arched doorway of the sitting room. She's beautiful, tall and slim in a tailored white silk blouse and a pair of black, belted trousers, a simple diamond pendant glittering at her throat. Her short hair falls in soft curls around her face, the same black-brown as Pansy's, and her dark eyes are as luminous and wide as her daughter's. Althea can see Pansy in the shape of Camilla Parkinson's jaw, in the graceful way she carries herself, in the appraising way she studies Althea before moving forward, elegant hand extended. 

"Camilla Parkinson," Pansy's mother says, and her fingers are cool and soft against Althea's. To Althea's surprise, there's no spark of pain; Camilla's skin barely brushes Althea's, her fingers curling lightly around Althea's own before Camilla pulls back. "Pansy's told me so much about you."

At that, Althea looks at Pansy, rather surprised, but Pansy's turned away, taking the satchel of clothes and potions from Althea's father. Althea's gaze flicks back towards Camilla, who's watching her, an inscrutable expression on her face. "All good," Althea manages to say finally. "I hope."

"Obviously." Camilla's lips quirk up at the corners, before she turns towards Althea's father. "You must be Mitchell. Come in, come in." 

And Althea glances at Pansy, wondering what it must feel like for her mother to be here, to be taking over her house, her life like this. Pansy just gives her a faint smile, almost a mirroring of her mother's own, before she brushes past Althea. "Let me show you the spare room," she says, and Althea looks around the small sitting room before she follows, taking in the low-slung white leather sofa and ottoman that she remembers from the last time she was here, the glass and dark wood coffee table stretched out in front of the hearth. She remembers sitting there with Tony Goldstein of all people, hearing him tell her what was going on with Pansy's family, the both of them determined to shield her the best they could. Althea wants to laugh bitterly. And look how well she's done that, she thinks, as she follows Pansy down the small hallway, past the kitchen and its tiny eating nook. She only hopes Goldstein's managed better than she has. But he would, wouldn't he? He's been bedding Pansy for years. He knows her better than Althea ever will.

She looks away at that thought, her lips pressed together. Only a few steps behind her, Camilla and her father are talking, and she can tell her father's charmed already. The Parkinson women are like that, Althea thinks. Even Daisy'd had her own charisma, and as much as Pansy might want to think it comes from their father, Althea thinks Camilla's had a certain amount of influence on both of her girls. 

"Here we go," Pansy says, opening a door. She looks at Althea, almost as if she's nervous. "It's not much, but…" 

As she steps into the light-filled room, Althea doesn't know what Pansy means. There's an enormous bay window set into the whitewashed brick wall, a small, pale blue velvet sofa positioned in the nook. The floors are the same dark polished wood that are throughout the flat, and the bed's wide and comfortable-looking, a solid white-painted iron frame that's piled with crisp white pillows and the fluffiest duvet Althea's seen outside of _Witch Weekly_. She moves closer, lets her fingertips skim the beige linen cover, soft and worn in the best of ways. It's perfectly her, in an odd way, Althea realises. Not fussy and frilly, but cosy and simple and everything that Althea would have picked out herself. She looks over at Pansy. 

"This isn't how it looked when Malfoy was here." Althea knows she's right when Pansy's cheeks pinken. 

"You needed a proper place to recover," Pansy says, a bit tartly. "Mother agreed."

Althea looks back over at Camilla Parkinson, who's stood in the doorway now with Althea's father behind her, his eyes wide. "I've been telling Pansy for years she needed to do something with this space." Camilla glances around, terribly pleased with herself as far as Althea can tell. "So much better than the rubbish she used to store here."

"Mother," Pansy says with a sigh, and she gives Althea an aggrieved look. "It wasn't rubbish. Just clothes I'd meant to take to consignment after Draco moved out." Her voice cracks at Malfoy's name, and she glances away. It's still hard, Althea knows, and she wants to tell Pansy things will be all right. That they'll find him, somehow. She's just not certain if she'd be lying herself.

"And how long ago did he buy that flat of his?" Camilla looks amused, leaning against the door jamb, her arms crossed over her chest, but she reaches out after a moment and brushes her fingertips across Pansy's bare arm, the quickest touch of comfort she can give her daughter in front of strangers, Althea would wager. Pansy just huffs and scowls at her, stepping back. Althea's throat tightens. She wonders if it would have been like that with her mother now, should Clio have lived, wonders if they'd both be exasperated by one another. Better than being aloof to it all, Althea thinks. People can only get beneath your skin if you care about them.

"It's nice." Mitchell steps in the room. His gaze sweeps across the bed, over to the tall, white wardrobe that Althea's bloody certain didn't come from the cheap part of Wembley Ikea like most of her flat had. It looks old, she thinks, but in a good way, and she wonders if it'd been brought in from the Parkinson estate in Norfolk. Her father looks over at her. "Better than that awful bedsit of yours."

Really, Althea can't argue with that. Her tiny flat works for what she needs--and Althea's never had expensive tastes--but it's still a bit grim and lonely, what with its narrow bed in the corner that serves as a sofa when the pillows are fluffed up properly and the tiny hob and sink area that comprises the entirety of her kitchen. She's lucky to have a small refrigerator and a miniscule washing machine tucked beneath the narrow counter, but she's fairly certain her entire flat would fit in this room, even if it'd be a tight squeeze. She walks over to the window and pushes back one of the sheer curtains, looking down at the street below. Camden's busy on this bright and warm Sunday afternoon, and the shops beneath them seem to be doing a brisk business. There's something comforting about that, really. Whatever might happen, life still goes on about one, doesn't it?

"I like it," Althea says after a moment, turning back to the room, and she can see Pansy's shoulders relax. Althea gives Pansy a faint smile. "I'll try not to intrude too much on you, though." Merlin knows she doesn't want to do something gauche, like walk in on Pansy and Tony in an intimate moment. Althea can't help the way her mouth tenses at that, and she knows by Pansy's furrowed brow that it must have come across as a grimace. She tries to laugh it off. "I'll be back in that awful bedsit of mine in no time."

"Don't be ridiculous," Pansy says, but there's a stiffness to her voice that wasn't there before, and Althea wonders if she's offended her. That's ridiculous though. Pansy must be keen on having her flat back to herself as quickly as possible. They might be friends in a way, but they're still mostly coworkers, and Althea's all too aware of that.

Her father reaches over, squeezes her arm. Althea tries not to pull away, but she knows she doesn't quite hide her flinch this time. "Everything all right?" Mitchell asks, and Althea manages to nod. 

"Just a bit achy," she says, and she sits on the edge of the bed. It's comfortable, more so than the one in hospital, thank God. "Might have been the Floo travel."

And that does what she expects it to, with Pansy and Camilla both fluttering around her in concern. 

"You must be exhausted still," Camilla says, and then she's beside the bed, settling the pillows up against the headboard. "Why don't you have a bit of rest whilst we put together some tea and lunch? I had my elf prepare some roast chicken this morning, with a bit of my mother's pear kugel on the side, although Tilham does add a tad more cinnamon and caster sugar than Mother prefered." She glances over at her daughter. "Pansy and Daisy always liked it a littler sweeter, Circe only knows why." 

"We were children," Pansy protests. "Our palates weren't well-developed yet." But she looks over at Althea and whispers, "Best kugel ever. Even if it did make us run about on a sugar-high afterwards."

Camilla rolls her eyes. "Anyway. I'm certain the warming charms are still intact. Tilham does do quite a nice basket, if I do say so myself." 

Somehow Althea finds herself stretched out across the duvet, Pansy pulling Althea's manky trainers off whilst Camilla spreads the softest, lightest knit blanket Althea's ever felt across her. It's like being wrapped in gossamer, she thinks, and she wants to protests, but it feels so bloody good. 

"You'll be all right, pet," her father says. "Won't you?" When he leans over to kiss her forehead, she smells the faintest hint of cigarettes on his breath. Althea wants to scold him, but she doesn't have it in her. Better a fag or two than a bottle of Frosty Jack's. 

"I'm fine," she says, and she looks past Mitchell to Pansy. "But maybe a lie-down isn't the worst idea."

Pansy waits until Camilla and Althea's father slip out of the room. She hesitates, her hand on the door knob, and she looks back at Althea. Her face is pale, a bit pinched. "Do you need a potion?" she asks.

Althea shakes her head. It aches, but Anna's right. She doesn't want to get too dependent on them. She really doesn't like anything that makes her feel a bit too loose, too uncontrolled. Althea's seen what that sort of thing can do to her father, and it frightens her. "I'd rather be up and at work again," she says with a wry smile, and Pansy snorts. 

"Not this week," Pansy says, but the look she gives Althea is sympathetic. "You'll be back soon enough. Circe knows I'd like to have you around again." She wrinkles her nose. "Between the guv alternating between fury and fear about Draco and Blaise grousing about Durant--"

"I thought they were perfect lovebirds," Althea says, her eyebrow going up. 

Pansy looks a bit disgusted. "Blaise has always been like this in a way. Loves the thrill of the chase, but when it comes to actually settling down…" She shrugs. "I always wonder if anyone will be good enough." Her face softens, saddens a bit, and she wraps her arms across her waist. "I know Olivia never meant to, but I think she broke him a bit after Andrew died." She looks over at Althea. "Her second husband. Or third. I can never remember. Andy was brilliant with Blaise though, and with Olivia too, I suppose. Blaise always says losing him was like losing his father, and I don't think he's ever quite recovered from that." She looks tired, the corners of her mouth pulling down. "Then when Olivia just started bringing men home…" Pansy shakes her head. "I think Blaise stopped believing anyone would ever stay. Even for him."

The room's silent for a moment. Outside Althea can hear the muffled voices of people walking down the street. Pansy seems lost in her own thoughts, her face scored with worry, and Althea can't help herself when she says, "That's bollocks, you know." When Pansy looks over at her in surprise, Althea pushes herself up a bit more against the stack of pillows behind her. "Durant looks at him as if he hung the sodding moon. If someone ever looked at me like that…" Althea glances away, her cheeks warming. She folds the edge of the blanket between her fingers, almost unable to continue. What she wouldn't give for Pansy to look at her that way, she thinks, and then she half-hates herself for that weakness. _Friends, Thea. Merlin, you don't have to want a tumble with every girl who catches your fancy._ Althea looks back over at Pansy, who's studying her with an odd expression on her face, and Althea rubs her fingertips along the angle of her jaw, feeling oddly exposed. 

She clears her throat. "All I mean is that if Zabini's that thick about it all, then he's just being wilful." And Althea thinks she ought to know.

Pansy doesn't answer. Instead she leans against the door, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. "Maybe," she says finally, and then she huffs a soft laugh, rubs her palms over her face. "I just wish Draco were here to tell him to stop being such a shit." Her face twists, as if she's about to cry before she breathes out, steadies herself. "He's better with Blaise's strops. I simply haven't the patience."

"I wouldn't either," Althea admits. "Men, honestly. So stupidly emotional." She smiles as Pansy laughs again. 

"You're not wrong, as much as they might want to argue the point." Pansy pushes herself off the door. "And here I am not letting you rest. Mother'll have my head in a moment."

Althea wants to protest, to tell her to stay. But she feels awkward and uncertain, so she just nods. "Probably."

Pansy hesitates, not looking at Althea. "I'm glad you're here," she says, her voice soft, and then she's gone, in a flutter of floral cotton. Althea can hear the soft tap of her sandals down the hallway, the muffled _Mother_ from the kitchen. 

The room feels very lonely. 

Althea leans back against the pillows, her breath coming out in an unsteady rush. This is a horrible idea. All of it. And all Althea can hope is that she makes it through the next few days without seeming like a complete and total tit. 

She stares up at the ceiling. 

If she's not careful, it's going to happen, of course. Making a fool of herself, at least. The only so-called relationship she's ever had that hadn't fallen into a complete and total debacle--either before it started or just shortly afterwards--had been with Padma. Althea's brilliant at one-night stands, at getting women off in ways they'd never imagined. Sex has always been easy, and in a way, she understands that about Zabini. Nothing matters that much when you know the other person's going to be gone by morning. It's when you start to care about waking beside them the next day that it all goes tits up. At least in Althea's experience. 

Padma had been different. She hadn't let Althea slip away in the middle of the night, as much as Althea had wanted to. And it'd been good for a while. Long enough for Althea to regret the inevitable implosion when Padma had realised how broken Althea truly is. 

Althea closes her eyes, a heaviness settling across her chest. And this is what she can't show Pansy. This part of her that's been shattered, this part of her that she doesn't know if she can put back together. It's as if the Althea she'd once been never existed, as if that person had died the night her mother was murdered. Althea can't trust anyone--not even her father--not the way she once could. Padma had told her she needed to get over herself, to let that night go. But Althea's afraid if she does that she'll lose her mother as well. 

She couldn't live with herself if that happened. 

"Fuck," Althea whispers, and she rolls onto her side, curling her sore and aching body into the mattress. The blanket's soft against her skin, and she presses her face into the crisp pillowcases. She won't cry. She can't let herself. If she does, she doesn't think she'll ever stop. 

So instead Althea lies silently, her eyes closed, her breath shallow and soft in the cool, quiet stillness of the bedroom.

And, somehow, in the slow haze of a lazy Sunday afternoon, the sound of murmured voices drifting down the hallway, she sleeps.

***

"What it is, right," Shah says, leaning forward in his chair, "they're all a great lot of sodding twats scurrying about, makin' it all worse than it has to be as far as I can see." He taps his quill against his palm, beating out an uneven rhythm that makes Blaise want to grab the bloody thing right out of his hand and snap it in two. He tries instead to shift in his chair, twisting his body so he can only see Shah from the corner of his eye. Blaise likes the man, rather a lot, if he's honest, but it's first thing on a Monday morning, for Merlin's sake, and he needs at least another coffee--maybe two--before he's feeling a bit less cantankerous.

Although to be honest, Blaise is fairly certain having a raging row with his boyfriend right before stepping into the Floo hadn't helped his mood. The worst of it is that he knows it's his fault, really. He'd picked the fight; he'd woken up out of sorts, feeling as if his skin was stretched too tight. Blaise hates that feeling, hates the tremor of fear that hits him when he sees Jake sometimes, when he realises how deep he's fallen into this relationship and how quickly. It'll all fall apart soon enough; Blaise can't imagine that Jake will want to be tied down to an over-protective Veela, after all, even one with rather tenuous connections to that side of his family history. It doesn't seem to matter, not really. Blaise can still feel the waves of possessiveness twist through him sometimes, that uncertain jealousy that hunches his shoulders, makes him feel as he's gone half-mad, makes his body ache with want and need so strongly. He knows full well that only his mate's touch can ease the furor inside of him, but Blaise can't seem to stop himself from keeping Jake at arm's length. He doesn't want Jake to be forced into this; Blaise wants Jake to _choose_ him, whether or not the damned Veela in him has decided they're meant to be together. 

So, of course, Blaise is facilitating that choice by starting an argument about the fact that they're out of bloody espresso and Jake--who only drinks sodding pour-overs, it seems--forgot to stop by the shops yesterday to buy proper beans. 

And that had escalated into a slammed door shouting match that Blaise can barely remember, other than knowing he was so furious he'd been shaking when he'd Flooed away. He'd definitely said things he shouldn't, though. Implied that Jake was useless without a job. Some sort of shite like that which he'll now have to go home this evening and apologise for. 

However, Jake hadn't been blameless himself. He'd called Blaise spoiled, ungrateful. _Fancy little rich boy_ had been thrown Blaise's way as he'd stepped into the Floo, and Merlin, that had stung. It still does, if Blaise is honest. 

Blaise sinks a bit lower into his chair, his knees spread wide, an unhappy grimness settling over him. Perhaps it's for the best, really. Blaise has never been able to have an adult relationship. Pansy's told him that much more than once, although he'd like to point out her shagging a married man for years doesn't really make her an expert on healthy dating practices. He presses his knuckles into his jaw, leans on the elbow he's propped up on arm of his chair. Shah's still going on about something to do with Luxembourg, but Blaise doesn't really care. He studies the bookshelves on the wall. Bertie Aubrey's new office is much more posh than the old one, but Blaise supposes that comes with the title of Deputy Head Auror, after all. It's not as big as Robards', of course, and there aren't any windows looking down on the Atrium below, but the carpet's a bit plusher and Bertie's desk is much bigger, even if he's still piled file jackets carelessly across the top of it, the way he had in his old office. 

This isn't where Blaise wants to be, but when Potter'd told him Bertie wanted to talk to him, Blaise had just pushed his chair back and walked over to the Deputy Head Auror's office without arguing. He hadn't had it in him to begin with, not with the guv. Potter's run hot and cold for the past week, and they'd never known when he might accidentally set something else aflame, so Blaise had considered it more judicious to do what he'd been told. He hadn't expected Shah to be waiting for him as well. 

"Are you with us, lad?" Bertie's voice cuts through Blaise's reverie, and Blaise looks up. Bertie's watching him, his eyes worried, his face solemn. Gone are the fisherman's jumpers and the scraggly, greying beard; Bertie's wearing a well-fitted suit today, and he's trimmed his facial hair, cropping it close to his squared jaw. He's a proper Auror now, and something about Bertie's acquiescence to the Ministry hierarchy irks Blaise. Bertie's supposed to be outside all of that, supposed to be someone who didn't give a damn what the Aurors in charge wanted him to say. Or be. 

Except, Blaise thinks, maybe he always was that sort anyway. 

Blaise shifts again in the chair. It doesn't creak beneath his thighs the way Bertie's old chairs used to. "Sorry," he says. "Lost myself a bit."

"You've a lot on your mind," Bertie says, and his voice is kind. "But Sergeant Shah is correct; the Luxembourg takeover of Azkaban's a goddamned disaster from start to finish." Bertie runs his wide, knobbly fingers through his thick hair. He looks older, Blaise thinks, more worn-down than he had at the beginning of the summer. The lines around his eyes have deepened, as have the furrows between his bushy brows. Bertie sighs and leans back in his chair, studying the both of them. "We've been told that a good half of our prisoners will be transferred to ICW custody over the next fortnight or so, so at least your job will get a bit easier, Hassan." The look he gives Shah is ironic, to say the least. 

Shah snorts. "Fewer of that lot don't mean an easier time, sir. Not when those numpties from Brussels are stomping around the place, trying to tell me exactly how we've fucked everything up." He scowls. "It's not as if we bloody planned this, you know. I'm not saying we don't need to give our head a wobble about it all, yeah? But I'm well done with being told I'm responsible for all the shit Marcus Wrightson and his lot caused." His face turns belligerent. "Or that bastard Lestrange." 

"Or my grandfather," Blaise says, his voice low. He smoothes a thumb over the cuff of his pale peach sleeve. The shirt had been a bold choice this morning, but it's one Jake had told him he liked a week or so ago, and Blaise had--at least before throwing a strop--wanted to see Jake's gaze go warm when he walked into the kitchen. It'd all gone horribly wrong after that, but at least Blaise's initial intentions had been good. Or so he tells himself. If he's honest with himself, he knows that's all utter rubbish. 

When he looks up, Bertie's watching him. Blaise glances away. 

"Nah, mate." Shah's shaking his head. "Barachiel's not that awful--"

Blaise gives him an incredulous look. "He and Burke walked off with how many Dementors?"

Shah hesitates, then he shrugs. "Bloody Luxembourg wants to destroy them, so I reckon your granda did the creepy bastards a solid." His gaze flicks towards Bertie. "Not that I'd say that officially, yeah?"

"I'd hope not," Bertie mutters, but his moustache twitches just a bit. Still, he's watching Blaise carefully, in a way that Blaise isn't quite certain he likes. 

"Might be a lot of things," Shah says, "but thick's not one of them." He falls silent for a moment before he adds, "Aurelie Fontaine let it slip that ICW sanctions are coming through officially day after tomorrow or so." He chews his lip, glances over at Bertie. "Akingbade's got a right cob on, from what I've heard."

Bertie doesn't say anything, only snorts, and that sets Blaise's nerves on edge. 

"It's just sanctions," Blaise says. "They don't really mean anything." As far as Blaise can tell, ICW sanctions are nothing more than a slap on the wrist, a diplomatic moue of displeasure, that's all.

But Bertie shakes his head. "These do." His mouth thins beneath his moustache; he leans back in his chair. "Some of them are the usual pontificating, of course, but Akingbade wants to make a point this time. He's increasing the trade tariffs with Britain, for one, and there's been serious talk of removing British personnel from the highest level of ICW clearance for five years." The look he gives them both is grim. "Which means no Ministerial presence on the Magical Security Council. Gawain's having a fit about that, given that we'll be cut out of all intelligence briefings for those years." 

"They can't do that," Blaise protests. "With Lestrange on the loose--"

"According to them, they can do whatever they bloody well please." Bertie runs a hand over his face, pressing his fingertips against his temple. Blaise sinks back in his chair, stunned. They need that intelligence if they're going to track down Lestrange. If they're going to find Draco. He grips the arms of his chair, trying not to lose his temper. 

It doesn't work. "Fuck them," Blaise says, and Shah nods vigorously. "What gives those bastards the right--"

"Our presence in the ICW itself, given that we signed treaties three hundred and fifty-odd years ago agreeing to be bound by ICW oversight in return for trade benefits and other financial and military considerations." Bertie gives Blaise a sympathetic look. "Shacklebolt's trying to fight them on the Security Council, but the Supreme Mugwump's standing firm. He's been furious with us since the last war, and we've gone and handed him our sodding heads on a silver platter." He sighs. "And that's not even considering the financial restrictions they're putting in place on the banking system. Gringotts' Head Goblin has been in closed door meetings with the Minister and his Cabinet all weekend. If it's approved by the ICW membership at large like it's expected to be, it'll cripple British investments outside of the country." He scowls. "And give the other countries the right to limit access to, if not freeze entirely, the funds in accounts held by British nationals, even if they're housed in branches of Gringotts."

"Circe," Blaise says, pinching the bridge of his nose. He needs to ring up his mother, make certain her banking is in order. Olivia tends to like to hide money away in Muggle banks, thank Merlin, both to keep it safe from any fluctuations in the Galleon as well as to keep the Ministry's revenue service from knowing her exact net worth.

"It won't stop there." Shah sounds tired. "Fontaine says their mission at Azkaban's being expanded. It won't be Her Majesty's prison much longer." He scratches his neck absently. "We'll still house British prisoners there, but the new warden and upper management'll be under Luxembourg's oversight." He drops his hand;there's a flushed patch across his brown skin that almost looks like a rash. Or a burn from a shaving charm. "And they'll set up a permanent prisoner's rights observation office. Not that I mind that part so much, if I'm honest, but from what I've seen so far, they'll make it a right cock-up in the end. What with all that bureaucratic rubbish." He frowns, folds his arms across his chest. "It's like someone settling down in your gaff, yeah? And without a proper invite, drinking up your best cider then telling you what complete shit it is." 

Bertie's mouth twitches again. "Not a bad description."

"Ask me how I know," Shah mutters, a bit glumly. "Not like my twat of a brother-in-law hasn't done the same." He looks up at Bertie. "I reckon the ICW's nearly as bad as Reza." His brows draw together. "But it's a close call."

They're all silent for a moment. Blaise wonders if the guv's heard about this yet. He must have. Potter's at Shacklebolt's beck and call lately as it is. Still, the guv hasn't said anything about it in the incident room, but, then again, he doesn't say much about anything these days. Blaise knows the past few weeks have been hard on Potter; he's seen the guv's face get gaunter, greyer with each day that passes. 

Bertie looks over at Blaise. "With all this going on, the DMLE needs a win," he says, his voice heavy. "Which is why I asked you to stop by." His gaze flicks towards Shah. "Hassan and I think it might help soften the ICW's blow if we can work through the Dementor issue. I want you to be a part of that."

"My grandfather." Blaise's throat tightens. Somehow everything in his life lately is coming back to bloody Barachiel Dee. "You know he's not going to bring them back here. Not if Luxembourg's going to destroy them."

"Nah, we wouldn't want him to," Shah says quickly. He seems a bit nervous as he shifts in his chair. "But if we could come to some sort of…" He hesitates for a moment, rubbing at his jaw again. "Look, mate, the thing is, we need to know what he's going to do with them." Shah leans in towards Blaise. "You can't really have someone traipsing about Europe with a caravan of Dementors like they're a family on bloody holiday, you know?"

And that's the issue, isn't it? His fucking grandfather's holed himself up in Crete with hundreds of Dementors who Blaise is certain would be loyal to Barachiel in return for his protection. "You want me to make certain he doesn't use them like an army."

Shah and Bertie exchange a long look. "We'd like," Bertie says after a moment, "to come to an arrangement in which your grandfather doesn't have access to a great number of dangerously classified creatures. It might make our position with the ICW a bit more grounded than it currently is." He eyes Blaise. "That's not a problem for you, is it?"

Blaise wants to laugh. Of course not. He's thrilled to be forced into being an intermediary for one of the men who caused his father's death, even if he is blood kin. Just brilliant, Blaise thinks, and he wonders how, in the space of a few short months, his life has become this sort of melodramatic farce. 

"Whatever you want," Blaise says finally, and he hates the relief that washes over both Bertie and Shah's faces. As if his grandfather will speak to him anyway. No one's thought about that, have they? Barachiel's no fool. He's going to suspect there's a reason why his Auror grandson whom he's never been close to is ringing him up for a bit of a chat. Still, not Blaise's problem. Bertie and Shah want him to try, then he'll try. He's just not promising any resolution. "I suppose you'd rather me contact him through unofficial channels?" 

"That'd be preferable." Bertie pauses, and his gaze flicks over to Shah. He leans forward, his face taking on that familiar, kindly expression Blaise recognises from other superior officers. Perhaps he's jaded now, but he's certain they cultivate it, try to use it as some form of rapport with the Aurors beneath them. Blaise hates it, and he hates that he sees Bertie trying the same. He'd thought Bertie better than that, to be honest, and Blaise feels a sudden spike of relief that Potter's never tried that rubbish on any of them. He treats them all as equals, and Blaise is starting to realise how rare that is in the Auror ranks. 

"Give us a moment, will you, Hassan?" Bertie's voice is careful, designed not to be offensive. Blaise knows that trick. He's used it himself. "I'd like a frank talk with Our Blaise, if he'll let me."

As if Blaise wouldn't. He holds himself still as Shah nods, pushes himself out of his chair. He looks over at Blaise. "If you need any help with your granda, let me know." 

Blaise just gives him a faint smile. He appreciates the sentiment, but if Shah thinks Blaise would let him into the twisted tangle of lies and half-truths that's his relationship with his grandfather...well. Not bloody likely, that. Still, Blaise reaches out, clasps Shah's hand. "Cheers, mate, and appreciated," he says, letting himself slip into the casual colloquy that he lets himself indulge in with his fellow Aurors. His willingness to meet them on their terms is what's kept him more insulated from their dislike than Draco's been over the years. "I'll let you know."

He won't. Ever. But Shah doesn't need to know that, and when Blaise catches Shah's warm smile, he feels a right shit. He's no better than Bertie and the others, he thinks. Playing the Auror game. How can he be disappointed in Bertie when he's just done the same?

The door closes behind Shah, and Blaise turns back towards Bertie's desk. Bertie's watching him, his face sober, his elbows on his desk. 

"I know we're asking something of you that isn't easy, lad," Bertie says, his voice soft, and Blaise feels something tighten and release deep down inside of him at Bertie's acknowledgement. "Things aren't easy between you and your grandfather right now." He gives Blaise a small, sad smile. "Or your mum."

Blaise exhales. He hasn't spoken to Bertie about all of this. Not since that night a week and a half ago when he'd found himself on Bertie's doorstep. He still doesn't know how he ended up there. Or why. But it'd felt almost cathartic to sit in the warm golden glow of Bertie's kitchen, a glass of firewhisky cupped between his palms as he'd slowly, haltingly told Bertie what he'd found out about his father. Or most of it, at least. There are things he'd left out. Jake's father, for one. He hadn't wanted to admit that, so he'd been vague about who else was there when his father died. Blaise isn't certain how he feels about Jasper Durant's part of it all, anyway. Perhaps it's wrong of him, but he blames his grandfather more than anyone else. 

The bastard ought to have known better, after all. 

He doesn't say anything for a moment, even though he can feel Bertie's gaze on him. His skin prickles; his body feels too tight, too small to hold the wave of anger and sadness that swells up inside of him. 

"I don't want to do it," Blaise manages to say finally. "But I'm probably the only one who can." Maybe. Blaise still has his doubts about that.

Bertie nods. "Out of all of us, he'll most likely speak with you." He looks down at his hands, folded across his desk blotter. His fingernails are cut down to the quick, but they're clean and tidy for the most part, with only a hangnail or two remaining. Blaise remembers when Bertie's hands were rough and calloused, and Blaise wonders what else becoming Deputy Head Auror has changed about Bertie. "We just need him to help us find a solution to the problem." Bertie glances up. "One he can live with as well."

"He won't stand for hurting them," Blaise says, and his throat tightens. He'd not understood his grandfather's view on the Dementors. Not until he'd spoken to his mother. Not until she'd told him what she'd done, how she'd made his father into a Dementor to save him. 

If one could call that a salvation. 

Blaise looks away. He won't let Luxembourg have the Dementors back. Not whilst there's any chance--however slim--his father might be amongst them. But he'll be damned if he'll let the British Ministry get its grimy hands on the Dementors either. Blaise knows what the DMLE is capable of. He's been in its belly for long enough to understand exactly his fellow Aurors might do to these creatures. 

To his father. 

He hasn't told Bertie about that part of the story. About his mother's confession, about the fact that his grandfather took the fall for what Olivia had done to protect her husband. Whatever difficulties Blaise might have with his mother right now, he doesn't want her to be pulled into this, doesn't want the Aurors looking too closely at the things she may or may not have done in her life. 

Bertie heaves a heavy sigh. "I wouldn't ask you to do this if it wasn't necessary."

"I know." Blaise leans forward, his elbows on his knees. He studies the deep purple whorls of the floral pattern across the carpet beneath the smooth, polished black leather of his boots. Blaise has never felt lost in his life, but at this moment he's no idea what he's doing with himself, where any of this is going to lead. "But that doesn't make it easy."

"No." Bertie says, and he looks away again before settling back in his chair with a quiet grunt. He rubs the back of his hand, his fingertips disappearing up his sleeve cuff for a moment. Bertie looks almost uncomfortable in his suit, and, somehow, that makes Blaise feel a bit better, as if the Bertie he remembers from his training days might still be in there behind the slightly polished sheen of the Deputy Head Auror. "Things still rough at home?"

Blaise looks down at his hands, clasped between his thighs. It'd been easy to tell Bertie that night about Jake, about how uncertain Blaise was about them. About himself and where he wanted to be. About how hard it was to live with someone. Bertie'd just topped Blaise's firewhisky up and given him a wry smile as he'd said, _there's a reason I've never wanted to live with someone, you know. Hard to share your privacy with another person. Gives them a chance to get under your skin a bit, to know the parts of you that you'd rather not know yourself, yeah?_ He'd shaken his head and lifted his own glass. _Rather be a lonely old bastard, myself._

Maybe Bertie hadn't been wrong about that after all. 

"Lad?" Bertie's voice is soft, and Blaise glances up at him. Bertie frowns. "Something's wrong, isn't it?"

Blaise's throat feels tight and hot. He tries to shake his head, tries to say _no_ , but the word sticks in his throat. He runs his hands over his face, pressing his palms against his eyes and exhaling before sitting back, his hands falling onto the arm of his chair. Blaise stares at the bookcase behind Bertie's shoulder, at the haphazard stack of wizarding law books and policing codes that have been shoved into the shelves. His gaze settles on a photograph of a twenty-something Bertie, even younger than Blaise is now. Based on the uniform Bertie's wearing, the photograph looks as if it'd been taken not long after he'd left Auror training, back when Bertie was just a constable himself. Bertie has his arm draped across the sloped shoulders of an older woman, small and dark-haired, her temples only just starting to show traces of silver in the curls she's piled on top of her head. The way she looks at Bertie reminds Blaise of his own mother, a certain sense of pride and surprise, mixed with a dash of ownership. 

"That's your mother?" Blaise finds himself asking, and Bertie looks over his shoulder, towards the photo. His face softens. 

"Not long after I started the force, yeah." Bertie glances back at Blaise. "She died a year or two after that." His voice is gruff, a bit thick around the edges. "Thought I'd put that up now I've space for it in here." He looks around his new office, as if he doesn't quite know what to do with it. Maybe he doesn't, Blaise thinks. Bertie's old space had been small and cramped and cosy.

Blaise studies the woman's face. She seems nice, but worn down, and there's something oddly familiar about the way she turns her head when she looks at her son. It's ridiculous of him, Blaise thinks. He's probably seen Bertie do the same over the years. Kids pick up all sorts of mannerisms from parents, after all. Blaise fully credits his own mother with his love of fine wine. "She seems nice," he says finally, and he feels a bit foolish. 

"She was." Bertie shifts in his chair. "But you're avoiding my question, Constable." His mouth quirks in a small smile. "Which is more of an answer than you realise."

"I suppose." Blaise folds his arms over his chest, and when Bertie raises one bushy eyebrow, Blaise huffs a quiet, bitter laugh. "Things aren't the easiest," he says after a long moment. He pleats the peach cotton of his sleeve between his long fingers, not caring if it wrinkles. 

"Relationships are difficult," Bertie agrees, and then he waits, his blue eyes kind. "Have you talked to Durant about your da lately?"

Blaise breathes out, then looks up at Bertie. There's something calming about Bertie's presence, and he wonders if this is why Draco had ended up here so frequently over the years. "He's asked about how I'm doing with it," Blaise admits. "I generally evade." And Blaise knows that foolish of him. But there's so much twisted up between him and Jake and their fathers, and Blaise isn't certain how to untangle it all. A deep ache rises up inside of him. This would be the sort of thing he'd go to Draco with, if Draco were here. And Draco would tell him to stop being such a twat about it all. Blaise knows that, and he knows he should let it all go. But it's easier to do that when his best friend's beside him. 

Not fuck only knows where.

And Blaise can't let himself think about Draco right now. He's too afraid of where Draco is, of what's being done to him, and Blaise feels so fucking useless, so incompetent. He's a goddamned Auror, after all, and nothing he's done has been able to locate Draco, so what sort of constable does that make him? What sort of friend?

"Fuck," Blaise murmurs, and he closes his eyes for a moment, tries to breathe before his chest tightens too much, before the panic and self-recrimination start to overwhelm him. His body tenses, hurts in ways Blaise can't even begin to describe. His logical mind knows it's all the emotion he's holding in check, and he knows he should let it out, should feel the fear and the anger and the grief that's tightening his muscles, throbbing through him with each second that passes lately. But Blaise is afraid if he does that it won't stop. That these feelings will drag him down, drown him in their intensity.

"Stop it," Bertie says, and Blaise looks up at him in surprise. Bertie's frowning at him, and it's only then that Blaise realises he's gripping the arms of his chair so tightly that his knuckles are turning an ashy grey. Bertie's scowl deepens. "Pull yourself together, lad."

And Blaise tries to. He can feel the Veela beneath the surface, unhappy and bitter, can taste the hint of bile in the back of his throat. He relaxes his fingers; they ache as he flexes them, rubs at his knuckles. There are faint gouges left in the wood finish of the chair, small dents that look as if they'd been left by talons, not fingernails, and Blaise marvels at that, at how the Veela comes out even when he's not expecting it to. 

"Sorry," Blaise manages to say, and his voice is hoarse and raw. He clears his throat, swallows. "It's just all a bit much sometimes." He licks his bottom lip. "Between Draco and Jake…" He trails off, uncertain as to what to say. 

"We'll find Malfoy." Bertie leans against his desk, his chair shifting backwards beneath him. "Gawain's doing everything he can."

_It's not enough,_ Blaise wants to say. _Have you seen the guv, for fuck's sake_ But he holds his tongue instead, and he nods. "I know."

Bertie looks at him. "And Durant?"

There's a long silence before Blaise says, "I've no idea." The Veela ripples beneath his skin again, and he clenches his fists tightly against his thighs. "I'm trying. He's trying." He glances up at Bertie. "He's been meeting with Tom Graves. Probably more than he's admitting to me." Blaise swallows against the bitter tang in the back of his throat. He hates that Jake's keeping secrets from him, and, yes, he knows how bloody hypocritical he's being. "Neither of them are particularly happy about their exile." He tries to keep his voice light, but he's not certain he manages.

"I see." Bertie frowns. "I assume they're both planning something impulsively idiotic?"

Blaise shrugs. "We don't talk about it." If Blaise pushes Jake too far on that matter, Jake shuts down. Blaise knows what that means; he's not a fool after all. He meets Bertie's gaze. "But that'd be my concern, yes." It's not as if Blaise doesn't understand Jake's need to do something. Blaise just doesn't trust Tom Graves not to destroy Jake's life. Or worse. He looks away, worry gnawing away at his belly. 

"Merlin." It's barely a whisper from Bertie. "That's going to bloody well complicate things."

When Blaise looks back at him, Bertie's brows are drawn together, his lip caught between his teeth. A spike of fear shudders through Blaise, and he realises he ought to have kept his damned mouth closed. "For all I know they're just spouting off down the pub about fuck knows what." But it's too late; his worry's already been passed on. 

Before Blaise can say anything more, there's a knock on Bertie's door. It creaks open; Bertie's assistant sticks his head in, a bit cautiously. "You've a meeting with the Head Auror, sir," he says. "Viola's already firecalled down for you."

"Blast," Bertie says, and he sits up, smoothing his suit. "Thank you, Liam. Let her know I'm on my way." When the door closes again, Bertie turns to Blaise. "Still not used to having that boy about." 

"You're Deputy Head Auror now," Blaise points out, and Bertie rolls his eyes. 

"Deputy something, I'd say. Kiss Arse, maybe." But Bertie's mouth quirks up at the corners for a moment before settling back down. He studies Blaise's face for a moment, then sighs. "I won't say anything about Durant, if you're concerned."

"I'd prefer you not." Blaise's shoulders relax a little. "I don't know anything really."

Bertie nods, and he stands. Blaise follows his lead. His legs are a bit wobbly, but he manages to hide it, he thinks. 

"What I want you to do, lad," Bertie says, buttoning the first button of his jacket, "is keep an ear out. If you think Durant and Graves are going to do something stupid, you tell me, all right? I want to mitigate the damage--for them and for the Ministry."

If he's honest, Blaise doesn't like the sound of that. "I'm not spying on my boyfriend," he says, a bit stiffly, and Bertie rolls his eyes. 

"Did I ask that?" Bertie comes around the side of his desk, picking up a file jacket from the corner as he does. "I don't give a shit what they're scheming, really. But if they do anything that's going to put the British Ministry in more danger with the goddamned ICW…" Bertie meets Blaise's gaze. "I won't let that happen, lad. You know I can't."

And Blaise does. He half-wonders if he'd told Bertie because he needed someone to share his worry with, someone who could help him keep Jake out of trouble. He hesitates, and then he nods, a quick, curt dip of his head. "If I find out that might happen, I won't keep it to myself." He's still not sure Bertie's the person he'd tell. The guv might be first, Blaise realises with a shock of surprise. But Jake might still listen to Potter, and at a certain point that's more important to Blaise than his own pride. 

Bertie claps Blaise's shoulder, his hand heavy and strong. "I'm glad of it," he says, and then he's ushering Blaise into the anteroom where Liam's sat at a small, crowded desk. "Now, I'm off to Gawain's. I trust you'll make contact with your grandfather soon?"

"I'll try." Blaise draws in a deep breath. That's going to require an uncomfortable conversation with his mother, he expects. 

"Good lad." Bertie beams at him. "Sergeant Shah and I will be waiting." And with that, he's out of the anteroom, the door swinging shut behind him. 

Liam sighs. "He's a handful, that one," he says, and then he looks up at Blaise with narrowed eyes. "Although I deny saying that if it comes back to me."

Blaise just shakes his head. "You're not wrong." He rubs the back of his neck, his gaze going to the clock on the wall. It's nearly ten, and he's a stack of paperwork waiting for him in the incident room. 

Fuck it, he thinks, as he steps out into the corridor. It'll wait a few more minutes, and the guv'll have locked himself in his office anyway. Blaise needs a strong coffee and a pumpkin pasty to settle his nerves. Margaret has to have her tea cart nearby; it won't take a moment for him to find her. Maybe even stop by the lab to see if Pansy's hiding away. Blaise needs a friendly face right now, one that knows better than to ask him uncomfortable questions. 

He's had more than enough of those for the time being.

***

Jake looks up at the grey sky just as the first few fat raindrops start to break free from the low clouds, splattering wetly against the grey concrete of the sidewalk. He jogs across the zebra crossing, managing to duck into Caffè Nero before the downpour starts. He picks up a bag of espresso beans, then orders a filter coffee and a butter croissant from the bored girl at the counter, then goes to sit at a table near the window. The shop's nearly empty at this hour--just past two in the afternoon--and Jake's glad of that. He doesn't want people around him, but he'd needed to escape Blaise's flat for a bit.

Some days Jake finds it far too claustrophobic to stay inside, pacing between the kitchen and the living room until he's certain he's going to wear a fucking path into the floorboards. It's worse on days like today when he and Blaise fight, and Jake wonders if he ought to just give it up, go find himself a spot in a hotel for the sake of salvaging their relationship. It might not be a bad idea, he thinks, staring past his faint reflection in the window. Outside the rain falls hard and fast and a forest of umbrellas have gone up, mostly the sombre black that Londoners seem to favour, but with a few pops of bright colour here and there. One umbrella-less woman runs past, her friend on her heels, both of them laughing as they find shelter beneath a store awning, clothes and hair soaked. 

Tourists, Jake thinks with a snort, and that surprises him, how quickly he's settled back into London, almost as if it's New York. He misses Brooklyn a hell of a lot, misses his garden flat and Hank's Saloon and the pizza. God, he misses the pizza. And a good, juicy burger, still pink in the middle. And a proper Coke with ice, as big as his goddamn head--or a Dr Pepper, fizzy and cherry-sharp. That'd always been his drink of choice when he was a kid, getting a chilled glass bottle from the cooler at the Seven-Eleven and settling down with Eddie on the front stoop of their house to dig through the bag of boiled peanuts they'd bought from the farm stand down the street, salty-slick from the brine and the best damn thing you could slurp down with the sweetness of the drink. 

He looks down at his dry croissant and sighs, picking off a piece and popping it into his mouth. Nothing like the beignets his mamère would make on Saturdays, flaky and coated in powdered sugar. 

England's different. Different food, different culture, different everything. Jake's always loved London, even before he'd met Harry, but he's feeling homesick now. He picks up his coffee, stirs two packets of raw sugar into it, takes a sip. Not as strong as he'd like but at least it's something. Jake lets his gaze drift back out the window. Part of how he's feeling might be the whole fucked up shit that's going on with Blaise. Jake's still trying to be patient, and he knows he shouldn't have lost his temper this morning. Blaise was obviously in a mood, and their fight hadn't really been about Jake forgetting to pick up the coffee beans. It's more than that, and that fact worries Jake. He's tried to talk to Blaise, but it hasn't seemed to go anywhere, and Jake doesn't know why. This isn't like it was with Harry. Jake can feel Blaise keeping him at arm's length, can feel the burst of fear when Blaise thinks things between them have gotten too intimate. 

The hell of it is that Jake wants more from Blaise. Needs more. And yet he knows if he tries to push any harder, all this is going to implode in his face. 

Goddamn it. 

Jake sits, watching the rivulets of rain stream down the window, the lights of the shops across the road glowing warm and golden in the grey damp. He finishes his coffee, pushes away the half-eaten croissant. The shop's quiet and calm around him, the only sounds the soft hiss of the espresso machine and the muted murmurs of the staff at the counter. The door opens, bringing the rush of rain and wind along with the cheerful voices of a couple in search of coffee. Jake leans back in his chair, closes his eyes. He lets the noise wash over him, lets his mind open up. He doesn't push. Doesn't try to overhear. He just lets the feelings come, the boredom of the girl at the till, the nervousness of the man ordering, the thrill of the woman with him. It's a date, Jake thinks, before he opens his eyes again, watching as the couple pick up their coffees and make their way to a table across the shop from him. They sit beside each other, without the table between them, their heads bent close together. 

He hasn't done this in a long time. It used to be something he'd try out when he was first building up his Legilimency skills. Just sit in a public space and listen--not to people's thoughts but to the emotions that washed off them. Non-verbals speak more loudly than words, he'd realised early on, and thoughts could be misleading.

It feels good to let his Legilimency muscles stretch. Jake's been trying so hard to keep himself bottled up, to keep himself from inadvertently reading Blaise. Just this little bit is a relief, a small tap to let some of that drain off before it builds up too much. Legilimens need to be able to practice; he'd learned that in Tirésias his first month there. Repressing that magical ability only harms the witch or wizard, causing mental trauma not terribly unlike that of an Obscurus, if not to that dire an extent. Jake's already felt the weight of it the past week or so, that itch in his mind that needs to be set free, that needs the chance to fucking breathe. 

Jake lets his mind skitter across the couple, still not quite listening. The man's fresh out of a long-term relationship; he's wary and uncertain about how much to reveal of himself. The woman's been interested for a while, Jake thinks, and he gets the impression that they work together--or had, at least. Jake wants to tell them to be careful, wants to let them know that in his experience workplace romances are dangerous, but he wouldn't have a leg to stand on, would he? He and Blaise might not work directly together, but their professional lives are twined together as much as their personal ones at this point, tying them into an uncomfortable, messy tangle that Jake sometimes thinks might strangle them both. 

Minutes pass like seconds as Jake soaks up the relief of having his mind unleashed, even a little bit. It surprises him when the couple stands up, carries their cups back to the counter. He shifts in his chair, his shoulders aching a little. Outside, the rain's slowing, though it still rushes through the streets to the storm drains along the curbs. Jake's disappointed. He doesn't want to leave; he's not ready to hide himself back in Blaise's flat, as lovely a gilded cage as it might be.

His phone buzzes. Jake pulls it out of his jeans pocket, flips it open. There's a text from Graves--the third one Jake's ignored since Sunday. _Any luck with Bucceri?_ Jake swears beneath his breath. You'd think Tom would at least vary the wording of his question. Jake thinks about ignoring it, but he knows Graves too well. Jake had promised he'd try, and Tom will hound him until Jake has an answer one way or another. And there's no use lying about it; Graves has always had an oversensitive bullshit detector.

Fuck it. Jake glances around the empty shop, then presses the button for his contacts. He doesn't know if he still has Toni's number; if he does, he can't be certain she hasn't changed it. But there it is, beneath the Bs, and Jake pulls it up on the screen, hesitating only a moment before he hits the call button, then lifts the phone to his ear. 

The line rings, and Jake thinks he's going to get Toni's voice mail when something clicks and he hears a light, Italian-tinged voice say, "Bucceri here."

And really, Jake's half-disappointed. He'd wanted to hope the number he had was bad, that he could go back to Tom and say he tried, but no dice. Instead, he takes a deep breath, then says, "Toni, Jake Durant here."

"Jacob! It's been too long, caro. I'd have thought you'd forgotten my number." There's a light teasing note to Toni's voice. She's always enjoyed flirting with him, and to be honest, Jake's never minded. It had irritated Harry from time to time, but Jake knows Toni'd never meant any of it. "I hope you've just called to check in."

"If only," Jake says, a bit regretfully. "I'm a jackass for not keeping in touch better. How's your mom?" Jake's always liked Toni's family; he'd had dinner with them once or twice when they'd come to Luxembourg for a visit. Toni's mother is Italian-American, raised in Brooklyn, and they'd bonded over shared memories of Carroll Gardens and Smith Street. Toni herself had spent part of her childhood in the city; it's one of the reasons Jake likes her.

Toni laughs. "Still telling me I should have married you, Harry be damned." She hesitates, then says, a bit more carefully. "I heard you two ended things. I'm sorry, caro."

For some reason, that hurts more than Jake would like to admit. "It's for the best," he says, and there's an ache in the back of his throat that he hides by clearing it. "We're fine, the two of us." 

"Right." Toni doesn't sound certain. She falls silent for a moment; Jake can hear the rustle of papers in the background.

"Look," Jake says. "I know you're busy with work right now, but I've a favour to ask of you, if that's okay." 

Toni hesitates, then says, "All right." 

Jake takes a deep breath. "You know Tom Graves?"

"Disgraced former Director of Magical Security for MACUSA?" Toni's voice is dry. "I've heard of him, sì."

And Jake's not surprised Tom's situation has started to make the diplomatic rounds. He's pretty damn certain Mike Wilkinson would be ahead of that story, crafting it to whatever he--or Aldric fucking Yaxley--needed it to be. "Yeah," Jake says. "He's out on his ear, same as me." From Toni's silence, he suspects his story's being spun in MACUSA's favour too. "You know I didn't do whatever it is they said I did."

"High treason doesn't sound like you," Toni says, and Jake wants to flinch a bit, given that's exactly what he's about to engage in. But for the right reasons, he tells himself. "They're saying you breached national security; everyone here's being warned off you in case you try to sell state secrets."

Jake wants to swear. "Toni, you know I'd never--"

"I didn't say I believed it," Toni says, her voice cool. "Your tastes aren't expensive enough to need that kind of money, and you're not a complete idiot." 

"Thanks." But Jake means it. He's glad to know that whatever lies are being told about him, at least some people have reason not to believe them. 

"Well, you've MACUSA on the run," Toni says, "trying to paint you and Graves both as the bad guys, so it's my guess you've rattled someone's chains a bit over there. Not that I'm complaining. MACUSA's always refused to meet us halfway on certain wizarding rights policies we've tried to get the ICW to implement. Bastards." Toni's never bothered to hide her displeasure with Jake's former employers. "Dimmesdale's trying to block our latest efforts to assist wizarding refugees from countries where the Muggles are waging war. Aradia, he's a slimy little creep."

To be honest, Jake doesn't disagree. He'd never really cared for Quahog's chief ambassador to the ICW. Dimmesdale's mostly a puppet for the administration at best, and when he acts on his own, he's only worse. "Preaching to the choir, Tone." 

"I know." Toni sighs. Jake can imagine her in her small office tucked away on a nearly forgotten floor in the ICW building. If he knows her, she'll have her ridiculously high heels kicked off and be leaning back in the chair that nearly swallows her small frame. "So what favour is it you need from me, you traitorous fugitive?"

"Nothing much," Jake says, but he knows that's not the truth of it. "A meeting, that's all." 

"That's all," Toni echoes, and he can hear the disbelief in her voice. "Tell me more, Jacob."

Jake hesitates. God, he doesn't want to get Toni involved in this. Half the ICW hates her for riding their asses, and the other half pretend to tolerate her, but only when they can use her for political capital against their enemies. There's a reason she's had to be so ballsy in her career, and Jake hates that Graves has asked him to manipulate her this way. "Graves wants to meet with you," he says finally. "He and I have some information about Quahog's administration that we think you should hear."

Toni's silent for a long, unsettling second, then Jake can hear the soft whoosh of her breath from across the line. "So we are talking treason."

"Only a minor bit of whistleblowing," Jake says, as if it'll make it true if he frames it this way. "You don't have to do anything with it."

At that, Toni snorts. "Tom Graves doesn't do anything for free, Jake. You and I both know that." She's quiet; the line crackles in Jake's ear. He watches as a mother comes into the shop with her toddler in tow. She looks like she needs a mug of caffeine. "All right," Toni says. "I'll talk to him, but only if you're there with us and he knows I'm not promising anything."

"I'll make it clear." Relief washes over Jake, along with a bit of trepidation. "He's going to want to know when you can do it."

"Hold on." There's a creak of a chair, then the rustle of more paper. "Friday," Toni says finally. "I don't want to do this in the office, so let's plan on dinner after work. Say, half-seven?"

Jake had planned on taking Blaise out that night. Food and a movie, maybe, followed by incredible, sweaty sex, if they're still not arguing. He hesitates, then he says, "All right." He'll make it up to Blaise somehow. In some way. "Text me a place and we'll be there."

"You'd better." Toni sighs. "I hope this doesn't blow up in your face, caro. MACUSA's not the most forgiving of governments, even on the best of days."

And doesn't Jake know that, all too well. "I'll be fine. I promise. See you Friday, Toni."

He sits for a moment after he hangs up, his phone heavy in his palm. They're really going to do this. It's gone past an academic exercise, an angry discussion on how he and Tom could bring Quahog down. Jake's committed now. Almost past the point of no return. 

Jake looks at his reflection in the window. "Goddamn, I hope you know what you're doing, you fucker." His reflection is silent. Grim. Jake looks away. 

It only takes a moment to text Graves. _Toni in. Fri pm 7:30. Mtg place 2 follw._

Graves replies within seconds. _Thnk Chrst._

Not exactly Jake's response, but whatever. This has always been more about Tom than Jake anyway. Jake wonders if he's just being taken for a ride, if all of this is for Tom's revenge, not the good of their country. Jake doesn't want to look too closely at that suspicion.

Jake starts to close his phone, and then he stops. He doesn't know why, but he pulls up his last text exchange with Eddie. He smoothes a thumb across the screen, over the pixelated words from his brother. And then he's typing, his thumb flying over the number pad, choosing the right letters. 

_Miss u. Hope ur ok, fuckr._

His thumb hovers over the send button. It's ridiculous, Jake knows. He's not even certain Eddie has the same phone, much less the same number. Jake's probably just shouting into the ether, but he thinks of his mother, and how she'd wanted him to look after Eddie, to make certain he didn't completely fuck up his life. Christ, Jake's done a completely shitty job of that, hasn't he?

Fuck it. Jake presses send. The message blinks, and then it's gone. Jake leans back in his chair, his phone still cupped in his hand. He waits, hoping that Eddie will reply, that he'll let Jake know he's all right, that he's not gone and got his fool self killed. 

Nothing comes in. 

Jake swallows. It's what he expected, after all. Eddie's a goddamn asshole. Always has been, always will be. But he's Jake's brother, and Jake needs to know he's alive. That he's okay.

He closes his phone, slides it back into his pocket. He'll look again later, just in case. 

The rain's nearly stopped. 

Jake pushes his chair back, picks up his empty cup and his shredded croissant, tucks the bag of espresso beans beneath his arm as he carries the others to the bins beside the counter. When he steps out onto the wet pavement, the air's heavy and moist, the sun starting to peek out from between the thick clouds. Jake looks up, the warmth comforting against his face after the cool of Caffè Nero.

A rainbow glimmers against a cloud, just a brief flash of colour and sunlight that disappears when Jake blinks, but it's enough for a bit of hope to swell up inside of Jake. He remembers his mama telling him about the promise of a rainbow, how it was God's word that the world wouldn't flood again. That's bullshit, Jake thinks, given how many floods destroy cities and towns each year, taking lives with them. But there's a part of him that's always been drawn to the spectre of that promise, to the belief that somehow, no matter how bad things get, it won't be more than he can bear. 

Jake holds the espresso beans in his hand, his fingers tightening around the slick bag. "You better not be promising something you won't keep," he says softly, and he's not certain whom he's talking to. His mother's God. His goddamn brother. The universe at large. 

Maybe even himself.

A calmness settles over Jake, steady and comforting, and Jake doesn't care if it's his mind playing tricks on him. For a moment, he can breathe, and he fills his lungs with air, inhaling the sweet scent of the rain and the roses blooming in pots a storefront away. He coughs, and then the city intrudes with the smell of gas and filth rising up beneath the roses and rain. 

But it's enough. 

And when Jake strides down the street, there's a lightness to his step that wasn't there before. 

He only hopes it lasts when Blaise gets home.

***

"So what does Kingsley want you to do?" Ron asks, putting down his fork. He reaches for his wine glass, looking at Harry over the rim.

They're sat in the little Italian restaurant they prefer, just off Islington High Street and a few minutes from Ron and Hermione's apartment. Harry'd been relieved when Ron had rung him up this afternoon, asked him if he wanted to grab a bite to eat after work. Harry hadn't really wanted to go back to the silence of Grimmauld Place tonight. Yesterday had been a tiring day at work, what with Zabini in a mood and Parkinson hiding out in her lab doing Christ only knows what, and today hadn't been all that much better, particularly for a Tuesday. To be honest, Harry's looking forward to Whitaker being back in the incident room, and he hopes her Healers are correct that she might be with them again next week. He needs someone else to help him corral the Slytherins, he thinks. Harry can only do so much before he wants to throw his hands up, tell them they can all fuck off if they really want to. 

"I don't know," Harry says after a moment. He drags the tines of his fork lightly across the remnants of green peppercorn sauce on his plate. The steak it'd covered had been brilliant tonight, seared to perfection and pink on the inside, just the way Harry likes it. He hadn't thought he'd been hungry until Delia had put it down in front of him. Now there's not a scrap left. He looks up at Ron. "I just told him I'd speak against the legislation in front of the Wizengamot, and Michael--his aide--sent me a note just before I left telling me to expect to be called down to chambers at some point on Friday." 

Ron turns his glass between his fingers. The house wine sloshes up the sides, dark red and shining in the dim light from the overhead fixtures. The flicker of the candles on the table is caught in the glass, sending a soft glow down the stem. Ron's plate is smeared with red sauce and small pools of olive oil. "So Marchbanks is forcing a vote."

Harry thinks about telling Ron about his confrontation with Marchbanks last Friday, but he knows Ron will be exasperated with him for being so damned thick as to go down to her office. Harry's been kicking himself over it for days, and he doesn't think he's about to stop now. He can't help but wonder if he's the reason the vote's being pushed forward. Maybe that's foolish of him, but he'd set himself in opposition to her, and Griselda Marchbanks doesn't seem like the type who'd take that well. 

Whatever she might imply. 

"I suppose it had to happen at some point," Harry says. It's what he's been telling himself since Michael's note landed on his desk. "I'm ready for it."

He's not, and they both know that. 

Ron sighs and sets his glass down. "You know, you should firecall Luna. She's back from Oz now, and she's been doing some work up at some gastropub in Edinburgh. I reckon she'd have Xenophilius do an anti-Registry article or two in the _Quibbler_ for you."

"No one reads the _Quibbler,_ " Harry points out. "Other than a few die-hard Stubby Boardman fans."

"Point," Ron says. "But it's press, and maybe if they raise a stink some of the others might as well. _Witch Weekly_ , for example. They always like you."

Harry snorts and reaches for his own wine. He's limited himself to one glass tonight; it's too easy for him to slide into a full night of drinking again. "Only because they think I'm straight and single."

Ron waves his hand dismissively. "Use what you have, mate." He leans forward, his elbows on the table. "How are you doing, by the way?" His gaze flicks quickly to Harry's wine glass before sliding back to his face. "Thought we'd see more of you this weekend."

Guilt twinges through Harry. He'd promised Ron they'd go watch the Cannons match on Saturday, but he'd been so fucking hungover after his confrontation with Marchbanks that he'd begged off. Spent the whole weekend holed up in Grimmauld, drinking, then sleeping, then drinking again. "I needed some time alone," Harry says, looking away from Ron's sharp, knowing gaze. "Last week was exhausting." He finishes off the last swallow or two of wine, thinks about asking for another glass. He doesn't dare though. Not here with Ron. Not tonight. 

"Yeah." Ron's voice is light, but there's an edge to it that lets Harry know Ron's not fooled. "Do I need to firecall Narcissa Malfoy to pull you out of this shit again?"

Harry's face heats up. There's another thing he feels awful about. He hasn't seen Narcissa for days, even though she'd left more than one answerfloo messages checking in on him, and Harry suspects Kreacher's let her know about his weekend indulgence. He knows he needs to firecall her back; if he doesn't she'll show up on his doorstep. There's a part of Harry that wishes she would. 

"I'm fine," Harry says. 

"That's rubbish, and you know it." Ron takes the bill Delia sets on their table, pulling out his wallet. When Harry reaches for his own, Ron holds up a hand. "Stop it. This one's mine." Harry sinks back in his chair as Ron pays the bill, handing Delia back a stack of Muggle bank notes from the stash he's started to keep in his wallet. The shop's doing brilliantly, Harry knows. He's been getting some returns from his initial investment all those years ago, and Ron's about to make another trip to Berlin to look at possible expansion sites. 

Ron gives Harry an even look as Delia walks away. "I'm not an idiot, Harry, and I've known you for fifteen bloody years now." He pushes his chair back. "Come home with me tonight. You can kip in the spare room, and I know Hermione's tucked some clothes you left over back in the wardrobe."

Harry hesitates. 

"I'm not going to take no for an answer," Ron says easily, standing. "Sleep over or I'll set Malfoy's mum on you."

"Bastard." Harry lets Ron drag him to his feet, half-glad to have the choice all but taken away from him. "Fine."

The walk back to Ron and Hermione's flat is oddly pleasant. The night's still warm, and the trees that were drooping a day ago have been refreshed a bit by yesterday afternoon's storm. The leaves are going to turn soon, in a glorious mess of reds and yellows and oranges, but for now they're still clinging to the last fading green of summer. 

Harry looks over at Ron as they stroll past shops and pubs, singletons hurrying for drinks with friends and families sat together at al fresco tables outside Islington's myriad restaurants. "You can't always protect me, you realise." 

Ron's quiet at first. His hands are in the pockets of his jeans, pulling them lower on his hips; his jaw is stubbled and scruffy, and he looks tired. When he sighs, though, he glances at Harry, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he gives him a half-smile. "I learnt that a long time ago, mate." He looks away, sidestepping a mother with a pram. "Doesn't mean that I'm going to let you be a damned twat to yourself though." The loose sleeves of his green, vee-necked t-shirt ripple in a faint breeze as they turn the corner onto Ron's street. "That's the part you haven't realised yet, Har."

"Maybe." Harry rubs a hand over his sleeved forearm. He knows Ron's watching him, so he tries to stop. He still forgets sometimes that no one else has seen the ink curling across his skin. Well, except for Draco's mum. Harry drops his hand a bit reluctantly. The ink wants him to touch it, wants him to feel the faint burn of its power. He'd spent the weekend tracing its curves across his skin, feeling it throb beneath his fingertips. He's less afraid of it when he's drinking; Harry can admit that much. He wonders sometimes if he should show Hermione, if she could help him. But he doesn't want to worry his friends more than he is, and he'll be fucked if Croaker ever figures it out. Harry doesn't trust Saul not to throw him over, and whilst he's certain Hermione would try to keep his secret, Harry thinks Saul Croaker has his ways of unearthing things one might rather not want him to know. 

They walk up the steps of Ron's building, then make their way up the narrow, circular staircase to the flat. Ron lets them into the narrow foyer, calling out, "Oi, love. Look who I brought home," as he drops his keys into the bowl on the side table and kicks off his trainers, wandering into the sitting room.

Harry stops in the doorway beside Ron, his greeting dying on his lips. Jake's sat beside Hermione on the sofa, a half-empty bottle of wine on the floor between them, glasses in their hands. Hermione looks a bit guilty, but she lifts her chin when she sees Harry. "Jake stopped by," she says. 

"Obviously." Ron gives his wife a long look, then he glances back at Harry. "Well."

The awkwardness is almost unbearable. It scritches across Harry's skin, settling between his shoulder blades, making him hunch, his fists pushed into his trouser pockets in an attempt to seem nonchalant. He doesn't think it's working. 

"I can go," Harry says, taking a step backwards.

"No," Ron says at the same time as Jake. They exchange a look, then Jake sits forward on the edge of the sofa, his wine glass still in his hand. 

"Look, it's fine." Jake's watching Harry, carefully. "I know this is weird, all things considered, but we're adults, yeah?"

Harry hesitates. It's not being with Jake that he minds. It's the strangeness of it, the four of them together the way it'd been before, all of them sat in Ron and Hermione's sitting room. Harry would have been on the sofa beside Jake, probably tucked between Jake's thighs, leaning back against Jake's chest, whilst Ron and Hermione curled up together on the smaller loveseat. They'd have shared a bottle or two of wine, laughing and talking into the night, and it would have been easy. Comfortable. 

In a way that it's never been with Draco. Not yet, at least. 

"Wouldn't have expected you here," Harry says finally, and he walks over to the loveseat. Sits alone, pulling one of the embroidered cushions over him like some sort of shield. 

"Blaise went for drinks with Millicent." Jake looks a bit uncomfortable mentioning Zabini. His gaze flicks towards Hermione who gives him a small, encouraging smile. "Thought I'd come over and have a gab with Hermione." 

Ron frowns at his wife. "I told you we were meeting up for dinner," he says, and Harry knows he's irritated at her for Harry's sake. 

"It's my fault," Jake says. "I showed up on your doorstep."

And that's Jake all over, Harry thinks. Trying to smooth things over, always taking the blame. It'd irked the bloody hell out of Harry towards the end of their relationship. And it's not helping with Ron. Harry wants to tell him it's fine, that he's worked with Jake lately for fuck's sake, that Jake's dating one of his team, one of his boyfriend's best mates. They'll have to get used to things like this. 

Ron's jaw twitches. "I need a beer," he says, and before Harry can ask him to bring one back for him, Ron points his finger at Harry. "Not you," he says. "I'm cutting you off at a glass of wine tonight."

Harry wants to protest, but Hermione and Jake are both looking at him, so he just shrugs and sinks back into the corner of the loveseat. "Can I have a tonic, at least?"

"That I'll bring you," Ron says, and he stomps off to the kitchen, his socked feet slapping against the wooden floors. 

Uneasy silence fills the living room, and then Hermione's on her feet. "I'll go talk to him," she says, and she follows her husband, her glass in hand. "You'll be all right?" she asks from the doorway, and Harry waves her off. 

"Sort him out," Harry says, and he's alone with Jake. The discomfort grows until Jake clears his throat. He's still sat forward, his own wine glass cupped in his fingers, the stem dangling between his knees. He looks over at Harry. 

"Been drinking too much?" Jake asks finally, and Harry shrugs. 

"Zabini hasn't told you?" Harry can't be arsed to hide the touch of belligerence in his tone. He knows Zabini must talk about him sometimes. Merlin knows his whole damned team's confronted him about his drinking. Save Whitaker so far, but Harry fully expects to hear it from her as well. Parkinson's made too many pointed comments over the past few weeks.

Sometimes Harry hates having Draco's closest friends on his team; they seem to think his relationship gives them carte blanche to say whatever the fuck they want to him. Things they'd never point out to another Inspector, another guv, lest they go down for insubordination.

Jake just looks at Harry. He sets his glass down on the floor beside the bottle. "Wouldn't have to, really. I know you, and I know what you're like when you're worried. So you're self-medicating your anxiety and probably all the damn PTSD symptoms that crop up with it too." He rests his elbows on his knees. "Tell me I'm wrong."

Harry turns his head, studies the silver-framed photographs that clutter Ron and Hermione's mantel, snapshots from their wedding, family portraits in Weasley Christmas jumpers, candids of all their friends. There's more than one of him up there, he knows. He doesn't know what to say; he's always hated the way Jake can read him so easily. "Jesus, you were a pain in the arse to have a relationship with," he says, almost beneath his breath. 

But Jake hears him anyway. "You're not the only one to think that." When Harry looks back over at him, Jake's reaching for his wine glass again, a bit grimly. 

"Trouble at home?" Harry knows he shouldn't ask. It's none of his business, really. But it'd explain the mood Zabini's been in lately, the temper he's had with all of them, Parkinson included. Harry hasn't really known what to do about it, whether he should address it or not. So he'd let it ride for now, thinking it better to give Zabini some space. 

Jake shrugs. "Nothing I can't handle," he says, but Harry wonders if that's true. Jake hesitates, then he adds, "Just a disagreement yesterday. I thought it might be over, but I could be wrong. Hell if I know anything, I guess. " He snorts, lifts his glass again. "Wasn't the best Monday I've had, wasn't the worst, either. I suppose we'll see how Wednesday goes tomorrow."

"Slytherins aren't easy." Harry isn't certain why he's saying this. "They're prickly as fuck and like to pretend they aren't feeling things." He thinks of Draco, of the way he'd kept Harry at bay for weeks, even as he'd let Harry fuck him in the filthiest ways. "It takes some time to get beneath their skin." There's a thread pulled loose on the knee of his trousers; Harry rubs his thumb over it, trying to fight the urge to tug at it. "They're worth it though."

"I hope so." Jake takes a sip of wine, then looks over at Harry. "I'm sorry you haven't found Malfoy yet."

Harry's body tightens. "Thanks," he says, a bit gruffly, and he can't look at Jake. There's a wetness in his eyes that burns, threatens to spill over, and Harry draws in a slow breath, fighting it back before he looks over at Jake. "We won't, if they have him in one of those extrajudicial prison of yours."

Jake's silent, and then he sighs. "Probably not easily." He leans back against the sofa. He's in jeans and a rumpled grey t-shirt that's tight across his shoulders. Harry remembers straddling Jake like that, Jake slouched into the sofa, his hips canted forward. It's odd. Six months ago Harry'd have wanted to. Now he can't imagine doing that, can't imagine wanting to sprawl across anyone other than Draco. Jake eyes Harry. "If they want to hide him, they will, I can tell you that." He chews on his lip. "But there are still records. He'll have a prisoner number assigned if he's in the system." He hesitates, then says, "I told Blaise to have Alma search for John Does. Or something along those lines. Smiths, even. Some bland, boring, common name. They liked to hide people with those, which is stupid of them, really." He lifts his glass to his mouth again. "It's not like a John Doe isn't a red flag."

"She hasn't had a chance to get back to him," Harry says. Or at least Zabini hasn't reported back to Harry. Harry's not certain Zabini would, quickly at least, if he'd had no joy. "What would they do to him in one of those places?" Harry doesn't want to ask, doesn't want to know. But the dreams he's had about it have to be worse than the reality. Or so he tells himself. 

"Christ, Harry." Jake shakes his head, and the look he gives Harry is pained. "You don't want to know that. Trust me."

Harry feels ill. His stomach churns; he digs his fingernails into his palms. "They've hurt him, haven't they?"

Jake doesn't say anything. 

"Tell me," Harry says, and there's a command to his voice that makes Jake look at him in surprise. Harry tempers it with a quieter _please._ He can feel the magic burning beneath his skin, thrumming hot and angry through him, and for a moment he thinks Jake is going to resist, going to say no. But then Jake sighs, takes another sip of his wine. 

"Beatings." Jake's voice is low. He looks away from Harry. "That'll be to break his will, mostly. Waterboarding. Torture. All things that won't do any goddamn good, but a certain segment of our magical securities forces think they might." His mouth twists in disgust. "I argued this for years with Tom when I could, but by that time the techniques were so ingrained in those prisons that I didn't stand a chance in hell."

Harry knows this. Jake had agonised over it the entire time they'd been together. The Muggles had pressed for more magical torture, on their own prisoners as well as MACUSA's. It was in the interests of national security, they'd said, and when Quahog had taken over the presidency, he'd brought on more witches and wizards who'd no issues doing it. Jake had left just before then, on his path to Luxembourg. And Harry's life. 

"They won't kill him." It's not a question for Harry. It can't be. Draco's still out there. Harry thinks he'd know if Draco weren't. 

Jake gives him a sympathetic look. "It wouldn't do them any good if they did." 

Harry sits silently, twisting his hands together. He curls his fingers inward, rubbing a thumb across his ragged fingernails. "I feel," he says finally, "as if it's all my fault." He bites his lip, stares blankly at the windows across the room from him, their sills aglow with the warmth of the sunset outside. "Like I could have stopped it. Could have saved him, if I'd tried harder." His voice cracks; he presses his lips together, swallowing past the thickness in his throat.

Neither of them say anything. Harry can hear the soft ticking of the clock on the wall, the quiet rise and fall of Ron and Hermione's voices in the kitchen. 

Then Jake sighs. "You always did think you could control everything around you." But Jake's voice is soft, warm, not accusatory, and when Harry glances over at him, Jake gives him a wry smile. "Don't get me wrong," he says. "I'm not saying I haven't done that myself."

Harry snorts. "I seem to recall having a row or two about that." 

"Yeah, well." Jake laughs, low and almost regretful. "When we were good, we were good. And when we were bad…" He shrugs, drains the rest of his wine. 

"I'm sorry." Harry winces, a heaviness settling in his chest again. "I was a shit--"

"You were you," Jake says simply. "And I was me." He scrubs his hand over his face before sitting forward. "God, this is the first time anyone's dared to leave us alone in a while." His mouth twitches up on one side. "How pissed do you think Ron is at Hermione?"

That's a damned good question. "He's feeling protective of me," Harry admits. He scratches absently at his wrist where the ink's burning beneath his cuff. Jake watches him, his empty glass dangling from his hand. "Thinks I've been drinking too much."

"Have you?"

Harry doesn't really want to admit it. Not to Jake. Still, he shrugs, glances over at him. "Yeah."

Jake just nods. "I probably would too," he says. He's quiet for a breath, then he adds, "I did after you left New York. Until Martine yelled at me not to be an asshole." When Harry looks away, his chin dipping down, Jake heaves an irritated sigh. "Jesus, Harry, stop acting as if you're responsible for everything. You were a dick, sure, but so was I, and I made my own choices in all of it. Drinking was one of them, and it was a stupid reaction to being angry and hurt. So get over your damn self. The world doesn't always fucking revolve around you, asshole." He rests his elbows on his knees, props his chin on his fist. His face softens. "You've got to let go of some of this, man." Jake hesitates, when Harry glances back at him, there's a gentleness in Jake's blue eyes. "And you've got to trust Malfoy. He's a grown man, and he's already a fucking good Unspeakable." 

"I know." Harry wants some of the wine left in the bottle. He turns his head away, almost able to taste the sour tannins on his tongue. They're all right. He has to control himself. 

"Do you really?" Jake's voice is quiet. "Because Malfoy's one of the best I've seen. He's strong. Physically, mentally, magically, and it's going to take a hell of a lot to break him." He bites his lip, shakes his head. "I don't know that MACUSA can do it, and if I were you, I'd be goddamn glad of that."

Harry's throat aches, but something halfway hopeful flutters deep in his belly, a soft blossom of calm that unfurls in Harry, settling him in a way he doesn't expect. 

"Don't give up on him." Jake reaches out, grips Harry's shoulder before sitting back against the sofa cushions. "I've been in Malfoy's head. I know how he feels about you." Jake's silent, then he says, "About his friends. His mom. Everyone he loves. And that bastard's going to get back to you all. I goddamn promise you that."

All Harry can do is nod, unable to say anything. He hopes Jake's right. Wants to believe everything Jake's just told him. He clears his throat, feeling a bit of a fool. "I just want to find him," he says finally, his voice raw.

"We will," Jake says, and when Harry looks at him, Jake's face is set with determination. "Trust me."

"I'll try." Harry gives Jake a wan smile. "It's just hard some days." He sits back, breathes out. Smoothes his palm across the arm of the love seat, following the grain of the beige twill. "Zabini'll be all right." He looks over at Jake. "It's just he's afraid in his own way about all of this."

Jake runs a thumb over the rim of his glass. "I know." He grimaces, his mouth opening, then closing before he exhales. "I just get the feeling he's not great with commitment."

And that surprises Harry more than he expects. "Is that what you want?"

"I don't know." Jake looks uncomfortable. "Maybe?"

Harry studies Jake, takes in the way he's holding himself, tense and taut, the jitter of his leg bouncing. "Oh my God," he says, realisation hitting him. "You're really in love with him."

Jake's gaze darts towards Harry, then slips away. "I'm not." But he doesn't sound convincing. 

"Fuck, you are." Harry sits forward, and any discomfort he's had is gone. "This isn't just sex." He almost wants to laugh at how petulantly offended Jake looks. 

"I'm not a complete asshole," Jake says. He rubs the back of his neck, his face flushing. "Yeah, I like him. So what?"

_You love him,_ Harry wants to say, but he knows better than to push it. "I'm sorry," Harry says, and he is, really. Being in love is awful. Harry should know. He hesitates. "You should talk to him."

"I have." Jake glares at Harry. "I'm not an emotionally stunted idiot."

"But have you, really?" Harry raises an eyebrow. He'd been with Jake for two years. He knows what he's like. "Sometimes when you think you're talking, you're not really saying the things you actually think you are." That'd been the source of some of their worst arguments, Jake thinking he was being honest with Harry when Harry had no bloody idea what Jake was on about. It's the Legilimens in Jake, Harry suspects. Jake thinks too much instead of putting things into words, then he expects his partner just to read his sodding mind. It'd driven Harry half-mental more than once. 

Jake just looks at him blankly. Harry wants to roll his eyes, but he knows that'll just nark Jake off more. 

"Talk to him," Harry says. "Don't just expect him to know what you want from him. Communication, arsehole. It's important."

"That sounds like something you've heard in therapy." But Jake's voice has a tinge of amusement to it. 

"Freddie may have said it to me in politer terms," Harry admits. 

Jake nods. "How's that going?"

Harry looks away, guilt bubbling up in him. "Haven't been in a while. Kind of hard to get to Paris, now that the Ministry's restricting Seven-Four-Alpha's movements thanks to our Louisiana trip."

The silence between them grows a bit awkward. 

"Sorry about that," Jake says at last, and Harry just shrugs. 

The door to the kitchen opens; they both look over. Ron's coming out with a bottle of lager in one hand, a glass of bubbling tonic in the other. He hands it to Harry. "Everything all right?" he asks. 

"We're fine." Harry looks past him to Hermione, whose eyes are bright, her arms tucked tightly by her sides, hands folded beneath her elbows. She doesn't say anything, just comes and sits beside Harry on the loveseat, leaning against his side. Harry takes a sip of his tonic water, glancing between them. "You two okay?"

Ron runs a hand through his hair, sits on the edge of the sofa. He looks over at Jake. "Sorry if I was a twat."

Jake snorts. "Don't worry about it, man. Harry's right; he and I are fine." He glances at Harry. "Yeah?"

And Harry thinks they really are. "Yeah." He raises his glass to his ex; Ron eyes them warily. Harry decides to put an end to it all. "Look," he says. "What I really need right now is a good distraction, and since Draco's not here to provide one--" And, fuck but that hurts to say out loud; Harry stutters a bit, his breath catching. He closes his eyes, swallows, then opens them again. "I'd like my friends-- _all_ of you--to just watch a fucking film with me on telly?" He doesn't want to think tonight about what he can and can't do about any of this--finding Draco, stopping the Registry, dealing with his own fucked-up head. At least for an hour or two. "Merlin, I'll even take a David Attenborough docu on BBC Four if I must."

"Oh, fuck no." Ron shakes his head violently. "I'm not fucking watching Planet Earth again."

Hermione laughs, and Harry can feel the tension seep out of her. "You loved it, and you know it."

Ron gives her a cheeky grin. "You just think Sir David's voice is sexy."

"It does have a certain tenor to it." Hermione pushes herself up, grabs the remote from the coffee table. She tosses it to her husband. "Your choice, but Harry and I have the right to veto anything shit." Her gaze flicks towards Jake. "This one too, if he wants."

Jake picks the bottle of wine up from the floor, pours himself another glass before glancing over at the clock. "I've got another hour or so before Blaise'll be home." He doesn't look at Harry, but the tips of his ears flush red. 

Harry just shakes his head. "Talk to him, you wanker," he says as Hermione settles next to him again. "You know you need to."

"Fuck off," Jake says, but he's smiling a bit.

Ron presses the remote, and the telly clicks on, a rerun of a sitcom blaring loudly from ITV. They all jump, and Ron swears, his thumb punching at the volume on the remote. "Sorry," he says. "Was trying to listen in on Corrie from the kitchen last night."

Harry leans his head against Hermione's shoulder; she threads her fingers lightly through his hair, smoothing her thumb across his forehead. "All right, love?" she murmurs, and Harry nods. 

For the moment, he thinks he might be. It won't last, and Harry doesn't want it to. Not until Draco's back beside him. But he needs this break, needs a chance for his mind to stop, to feel safe with people who love him, who worry about him, who want to protect him from his own bloodyminded idiocy, the way they have since he was a child. Broken, frightened, uncertain. Ron and Hermione have always been there for him on the best days and the worst.

And that, Harry thinks, is the greatest gift he's been given in his life.

Except, perhaps, Draco. 

His fingers curl around Hermione's; she squeezes back gently. "Thanks," Harry says quietly, and she presses her forehead to his. 

"You'll be okay," she murmurs. "We'll find him. I promise."

It's the same refrain they all say to him. Over and over and over again. But this time, Harry believes her. A little, maybe more than he expects. Of all people, Hermione's the least likely to lie to him. "Yeah," he says, the word catching in his throat. He gives her a faint smile, but he knows it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "I know we will." He lets Hermione slide an arm around him, hold him close. 

All Harry has are flickers of hope, faint and uncertain. But he holds on to them, as tightly as he can. He has to. He has no idea what he'll do if they're snuffed out.

That's something Harry never wants to know.

***

The laundry at Oudepoort is humid and hot and crowded with sweaty men, their jumpsuits half shucked off, loose sleeves dangling at their waists. Skin glistens, muscles strain, and Draco feels utterly overwhelmed by all of it.

He's hidden himself in a corner, folding still-steaming sheets and towels from the wide canvas baskets that have been loaded from the dryers by two tall, burly prisoners--the first ones to have bared their chests, not that Draco's paying attention to that sort of thing. 

Draco's not used to the Muggle technology that the laundry's using, these large machines that take the place of the cleaning and drying charms he knows. And that's part of the punishment, Draco's starting to realise. There may not be Dementors gliding through the corridors of Oudepoort, but the magical dampeners take their place, pressing against one's skin, keeping that power tamped down until Draco feels half-mad with it all. They're meant to feel like Muggles--No-Majs, some of the others say with a twist of their mouths, one that Draco recognises from his childhood. It seems the worst thing that can happen to those men is to lose their magic, to be lesser than what they expect of themselves. Draco keeps his distance from those prisoners. He's spent too much of his life hearing that sort of rubbish, after all.

None of the guards seem affected by the dampeners, at least as far as Draco can tell. He wonders if they wear an amulet to protect them--or take a potion of some sort. His gaze drifts over to the two guards standing on the steps near the doorway. They look calm, collected. There's no half-crazed glint in their eyes, like Draco's seen in the lifers here already. 

He pushes his hair back from his face. It's lank and limp from the humidity, and sweat trickles down Draco's neck, beneath his collar. He's hot in his oranges, but he won't take off his shirt. Not here. Not with the Mark still dark against his knotted scar. Instead, Draco wipes his sleeve over his face, longing for a cooling charm. To be honest, he thinks the guards like seeing them squirm in the heat; Draco's starting to think they see the prisoners as nothing more than beasts. And the ICW'd been so up in arms about Azkaban, Draco thinks bitterly. Merlin knows they'd turn a blind eye to whatever MACUSA's doing behind the barbed wire fences and high-level wards in place at Oudepoort. 

Fuckers.

He doesn't realise he's said it out loud until one of the others looks over at him, brow furrowed, muscular shoulders tense. "What the hell'd you call me?" The man's name is Bobby, Draco knows, and he's been put in here for beating a man to death with a bludgeoning charm. 

Draco swallows, lets his gaze slide over to the guards. "Meant them," he says after a moment. Better a simple lie than trying to explain his thoughts. "Guards are always fuckers."

Bobby glances over towards the door, and his face shifts. Becomes uglier in a way. "Assholes," he says in agreement. "Think they know what's best for all of us poor criminal shitheads, yeah?" He looks back at Draco, a bit friendlier than he's been the whole of this week that Draco's been on laundry duty. "Ain't they your sort, Runt?" 

It's a nickname that seems to have stuck, at least here in the laundry. Draco hates it, knows it's meant to demean him, but he keeps his mouth shut. It won't do any good to protest; they'll just dig their heels in, the whole lot of them. 

"No," Draco says, his voice curt and sharp. They all seem to know he's a former Auror now; prison gossip's worse than the whispered tales that used to run through his mother's social circles, back before the war. 

Bobby just eyes him, then, when the dryer buzzes, pulls out a load of towels and tosses them in Draco's almost-empty basket. Draco looks at them, his shoulders slumping. He's tired; his body aches; he's hot and out of sorts. Bobby shrugs. "Ain't like they're going to let us sit on our asses all day." He leans against the dryer for a moment; his gaze slides over to Draco. "Only let you do that last week because you'd been so fucked." Bobby touches his own face, on the places that Draco knows are still bruised, the yellow-purple splotches that stand out against his pale skin. "Somebody worked you over but good, Runt. Makes me think you must have pissed them off."

"Something like that." It's odd to be talking, Draco thinks. The others have left him alone for the most part, only speaking to him when necessary. He doesn't trust Bobby, but he's realising how starved he's been for companionship. He pulls a towel out, folds it, ignoring the dull pain in his ribs. There's at least two broken, Draco's certain, and no one's bothered to give him any medical care. He could complain, perhaps, but what good would it do? Even if he were taken to the infirmary, Draco doubts he'd receive decent care. And then he'd look weaker in front of the other prisoners. His place here is already too fragile as it is. 

"Better you than me, man," Bobby says, but he gives Draco a sympathetic look anyway. "I thought they were rough when they brought me in, but, hell, half of that was my fault for trying to punch the arresting Auror." He studies Draco. "You do any of that?"

Draco snorts. "Didn't have much chance." He sets the towel aside, picks up another. Merlin, but he feels like a house elf. And that makes him think of Kreacher, which makes him think of Harry, and Draco grips the towel tightly as he folds it, trying not to let his hands shake. He wonders what Harry's doing right now. It's eleven in the morning here, which would make it--Draco does the maths in his head. Four, he thinks, on a Wednesday afternoon. Harry might be in the incident room, and Draco closes his eyes for a moment, lets himself imagine that space. The blank cream walls, ever so grimy and dingy, the whiteboard filled with Harry's scrawls, the four desks set across from each other, Draco's old one piled high with file jackets that the others haven't wanted to put away yet. He can see them each there, Pansy perched on the edge of her desk in heels and the floral dresses she likes to wear those last few warm days before autumn sets in. Althea bent over her paperwork, her dark hair braided and wrapped around her head, a few tendrils working their way lose, falling against her long, pale neck. Blaise stretched out in his chair, hands behind his head, his shirt crisp and white, his tie perfectly knotted, a frown on his face as he thinks. 

And then Harry. Hair mussed, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his forearms golden and muscular, his shoulders broad, an ink smear on his temple from where he's stuck his quill behind his ear, his lip caught between his teeth as he studies whatever clues he's written on the murder board. 

Draco's heart aches. He misses them all, but it's the thought of Harry that makes his worry swell up again, makes him desperate to do whatever he needs to do to get away from this godforsaken place. 

He exhales. Opens his eyes. His fingers are twisted in the warmth of the towel, wrinkling it. Draco smoothes the terrycloth, lays the towel aside. He doesn't care that it's half-folded. 

"You good?" Bobby asks, and when Draco looks over at him, Bobby actually looks concerned. "Seems like you went a little wobbly there."

"Just thinking of home," Draco says, his voice a rough scrape against his throat. 

Bobby nods, as if he understands, and maybe he does. "We all get like that sometimes." He takes a load of wet sheets from the canvas basket that another prisoner--Hector, Draco thinks his name is--pushes his way, and he shoves them into the nearest empty dryer. "I'd like to see my kid again." Bobby's face goes wistful. "Not a goddamn chance her mom'll bring her by though. She's pissed at me for…" He presses the start button. "Well, you know."

"Killing a man?" Draco gives Bobby a sideways glance. 

"Something like that." Bobby's mouth thins; he looks away. 

They fall silent, both of them, and the rhythm of the work takes over. Draco folds, then stacks, then sorts the towels and sheets into the baskets, wheeling them to the side of the room where they'll be picked up by other prisoners to take back to the cell blocks. The room's sweltering by the time lunch is called, and Draco's grateful to be out of it as he queues up with the other prisoners. Bobby's two men down from him, his dark brown eyes sliding towards Draco as the guards walk down the queue, then back up again, shouting for them to get in goddamn formation. They're led to the cafeteria in a brisk shuffle, and Draco's stomach rumbles as he smells chicken wafting out of the kitchen. 

Draco takes his plastic tray, lets it be filled up with chicken and potatoes. He'd prefer them to be roasted, but he's learned that Oudepoort serves most everything fried or mashed or in a stew of some sort Behind him he catches sight of Bobby, turned away, gesticulating about something with some unseen conversant. To be honest, Draco wouldn't be surprised if Bobby were talking to himself. This bloody place pushes one to one's limits, Draco's found, and he's only been here a week, if that. Days start to blur together after a while; there's no sense of time passing properly, save for the Sunday mornings when the chaplains arrive. Draco had watched men he'd guarantee weren't religious file out of their cells then, eager for something different, some new way of passing time that isn't bastardised Quodpot in the exercise yard or working whatever shift they'd been assigned in the laundry, kitchen or cleaning crew. For a moment Draco'd considered joining them, out of sheer boredom, but in the end, he'd stayed in his cell. The last thing he needed was someone trying to save his bloody soul.

Merlin knows that's a waste of time.

There's an empty table at the end of one of the rows. Draco sits at it, expecting to be left alone. Most of the others tend to avoid him, as if he's some sort of pariah, tainted by his association with the Auror force. Draco doesn't really care. He'd spent nearly eight years getting the cold shoulder from his fellow Aurors for his father's association with criminals. Being shunned by criminals for his police work isn't all that different in the end. 

He's just tucked into his pile of potatoes, fluffy and warm and dripping with butter and pepper, when Bobby sits across from him. Draco glances up at Bobby in surprise, a bit of steaming potato falling from his fork, splattering across his tray. He looks around, at the empty seats surrounding them, then back at Bobby. 

"Why are you sitting with me?" Draco doesn't bother with niceties. He can see the heads turning, narrowed eyes watching them. 

Bobby shrugs, picks up a chicken leg and bites into it. "Thought I should." He chews, then swallows. "Boss told me to save a seat for him anyway."

Draco's eyebrow goes up. He leans back on the bench, rests one elbow on the table, his fingers rubbing across his beard. It's filling out more, covering his jaw now, and it only itches a bit. He could have it shaved at the prison barber shop--open only on Tuesdays and Thursdays after the afternoon work shift--but Draco's not certain he wants anyone near him with sharp implements. Even if guards are around. He hesitates, then amends that thought. _Especially_ with guards around. 

"Boss?" Draco asks, but Bobby doesn't answer. He's too busy eating his chicken, pulling off bits of fried breading with stubby, greasy fingers and popping it into his mouth. Draco wants to push harder, but his copper instinct tells him it won't work with Bobby. He's the type that would have to be wooed a bit in the interrogation room. Flattered. Made to feel like he'd outsmarted the Aurors, that they're so impressed with him. 

And really, Draco doesn't have it in him at the moment for that sort of bollocks. He turns back to his food, cutting his chicken with a fork and knife and eating it delicately. He looks up to find Bobby watching him in fascination. "What?" 

"Bit of a priss, aren't you?" But Bobby doesn't seem to be trying to be rude as far as Draco can tell. Bobby points to the way Draco's holding his fork and knife, the fork in his left hand, tines turned down, the knife in his right the way he'd been taught since birth. "Who the hell eats like that?"

Draco sets his cutlery down, then reaches for a paper napkin, wiping his fingers clean. "People who aren't utter Philistines." He keeps his voice light. "Merlin only knows what happened to manners in this country." 

He almost thinks Bobby's going to grow angry, but the man just looks amused. "You're a weird one, Runt," he says, and he goes back to eating. 

It feels almost anticlimactic. Draco doesn't really understand the frustration that roils through him, as if he'd been denied the fight he didn't even know he was looking for. 

Draco's nearly done with his potatoes when he footsteps stop behind him. Bobby looks up.

"Boss," Bobby says. Draco refuses to turn around, refuses to give whomever this is any more control over him than Bobby's already tried to impose. He turns back to his chicken, cutting it carefully as two pairs of orange-clad legs step over the bench, one on either side of him, almost in unison, followed by two plastic trays. 

The men settle beside him. Draco looks across the table at Bobby as he calmly, slowly spears a piece of chicken and lifts it to his mouth. He chews, swallows, drags his tongue along the curve of his lip. He can feel his heart pounding in his chest, and he wills it to slow. No one's going to do anything to him here, Draco tells himself. It's too public. They'd wait until he was alone--or as alone as one can get in the middle of a high-security men's cellblock--and they'd shiv him there. 

A tanned, freckled forearm rests on the table beside Draco. There's a tattoo on it. A grey skull in the midst of red roses. 

"Laissez les bons temps rouler," Draco murmurs, and he looks up at Jasper Durant. "Boss."

Jasper gives him a slow, easy smile. "Blondie," he says, and he glances over at Bobby. "You check him out?" He sounds slightly exasperated, slightly amused. Draco wonders what Bobby'd said about him before.

"Reckon the Runt's all right." Bobby wipes his greasy mouth with a balled-up napkin. "He ain't a big fan of the guardmen either."

"Puts you in the good column for Bobby," Jasper says to Draco. "Otherwise he'd knock your goddamn lights out next time you soaped yourself up in the shower."

Bobby shrugs when Draco looks over at him, a bit appalled. "Sadistic little fucks is what they are. Ain't no one in this shithole ought to like them. If they do, I'm betting every last Dragot I've got saved up in the commissary that they're on those bastard's payroll." He eyes Draco, his face twisted in disgust. "Goddamn assholes bribe people in here to spy on us for them."

"This tends to offend Bobby's sense of what I think your people would call social propriety." Jasper's amusement is evident. "Not that I think he's wrong about that, you know."

"I goddamn ain't," Bobby protests. "There used to be some fucking honour among thieves in this world. Look at your boy--Eddie, not the one that's the narc--"

"Auror," Jasper says with a sigh. 

"Po-tay-to, po-tah-to." Bobby waves his fork through the air. A bit of said potato flies off, spatters against the tabletop. "A narc's a narc, whatever."

The man on Draco's other side just leans over, wipes it up with a napkin. "Goddamn it, Bobby," he says in a rumbling voice. "You're a fucking menace." Bobby just shrugs and digs his fork back into his food.

Jasper turns towards Draco. "As you might be able to tell, Bobby's not a fan of your former profession." 

"Shockingly," Draco says, a bit dryly. He can only imagine how much Bobby dislikes Aurors, given his antipathy towards the guards. He supposes it's a compliment in its own odd way that Bobby's sat here now with him. 

"Don't get me started, Boss," Bobby says through a mouthful of chicken. "Anyway, back to your Eddie, not what's his name. Now there's a boy what was raised right, and knows who the fuck to be showing some goddamn respect to, thank you very much, sir."

Jasper shakes his head. "Eddie's a reckless little shit, but all right. My daddy and I did train him to keep his mouth shut when it behooved him." He looks over at Draco. But it's not Eddie I want to talk to Blondie here about." 

"Surprising," Draco murmurs. He shifts on the bench, looks over at the other man sat to his right. He's big and beefy, his skin a deep russet brown, and he's ignoring them all in favour of scooping up some sort of ungodly mixture of potatoes, gravy and shredded bit of chicken. "You're new."

The man looks over at him. "Jeremiah Jonker," he says, and he holds out his hand to Draco. "Got framed for embezzlement by my boss. He's lounging on some Mexican beach now, and I'm serving his fucking time." 

"You'd think Jonks was our muscle," Jasper says, and he's looking fondly across Draco at the other man. "But he does all our accounting. Man has a head for numbers like you wouldn't believe."

"And investments." Jonks says. He rests his elbows on the table. "I get a damn good return on all of our money."

Draco looks between them. "You're running a scam."

"No." Jasper pushes back his tray, folds his hands in front of him. "We're not scamming a goddamn person. We're providing a much needed service to our fellow inmates, then folding our returns back into our business model to make it self-sustaining. Least that's what Jonks says we're doing."

Jonks nods. "Business 101, man." He licks a bit of potato off his thumb, then shifts on the bench, turning towards Draco. "One of the guards is on _our_ payroll. He helps us smuggle shit into the prison; Bobby, Jas and I distribute it, along with some of our assistants on the women's side. Given most of our product, how should I say...falls off the back of a truck thanks to some of Jasper and Eddie's acquaintances, we're turning a pure profit while being able to sell it all at a significantly reduced cost to a prison population. Not the most sophisticated of operations, but it works."

"And Jonks' wife takes the money out each week during their conjugal visits and invests it in No-Maj stocks for our general portfolio." Jasper looks pleased with himself. "Makes a nice little nest egg for whenever we manage to get out of this goddamn place."

Draco doesn't point out that Jasper's supposedly in here for life. "So you're telling me this for what reason?" He eyes them all sceptically. "I'm a former Auror. What makes you think I won't tell the guards right now what you lot are doing?"

"I'll fucking cut your throat if you do," Bobby says, a bit too easily and bluntly for Draco's liking. His smile's thin; it doesn't reach his eyes. "Look, Runt, I wasn't keen on taking you into this, but the Boss here, he thinks you're worth it. So you do what we tell you to, and you don't get…" He draws a finger across his throat. Draco tries not to flinch. He's not certain Bobby actually would carry through with his threat, but he doesn't want to find out. 

"Stop fucking scaring him, you jackass," Jasper says, and evidently he's decided to play good Auror today. That unsettles Draco even more. "Besides, I got a better way to encourage Blondie to help us out."

Jasper glances around, then draws a small grey bit of plastic from his pocket and sets it on the table between his tray and Draco's. It's a mobile, and Draco's heart jumps. He starts to reach for it; Jasper lays his own wide hand over it. 

"Ground rules," Jasper says, and there's a ribbon of steel beneath his honeyed drawl. "I'll give you this now, but it's useless. No SIM card, no way to make a call. You do what we ask, I'll give you a card that'll let you make one call. Every time you help us out, you'll get another one. Sound fair?"

Not in the slightest, but Draco knows he's over a barrel. He shouldn't have let Jasper know how much he wanted contact with the outside world. With Harry. Draco chews his lip, weighing his options. He's not stupid enough to let the prison brass know what Jasper's up to. And to be honest, he doesn't really fucking care. So they're smuggling shit in. Unless it's fucking Dark Artefacts or psychotropic potions, Draco could give a damn. 

"All right," Draco says after a moment. "What do you want me to do?"

Jasper's smile widens, almost feral in its sharpness. "Leroy, our guard, seems to be a bit hesitant to help us out at the moment. I want to now why, and I want you to find out. You're a Legilimens after all, aren't you?"

Draco doesn't look away. "There are magical dampeners here. I can't do any of that."

"Bobby." Jasper holds his hand out. "Give it to me."

"Shit, here?" Bobby glances around. "Boss, if they catch me with it--"

"Now," Jasper says. His voice is cold. Hard. 

Bobby exhales, then digs into his pocket, pulling out a small phial. "Thought I was going to fucking give this to the Runt in the goddamn bathroom." 

A silvery liquid glints in the bottom of the phial. There's barely in it, a mouthful at most. Jasper's fingers curl around it, hiding it from view. Draco's gaze darts past him. No one's watching them. Draco wonders if half the men are afraid to, what with Jasper beside him. 

Jasper slides the phial beneath the table, holding it out for Draco to take. The phial's cool against his fingertips, and Draco palms it, looking down for just a moment. The liquid glows in the shadows of his fist; Draco slips the phial into his pocket. "This poison?" Draco asks, and Jasper laughs. 

"It's the shit they give the guards to keep the dampeners at bay," he says. "We've got a little bit of it, but we only use it when necessary."

"And this is?" Draco looks over at Jasper. 

"I want to know what Leroy's planning," Jasper says. "If he's just got cold feet, or if he's about to betray us." His face sobers. "I don't much care for the latter, I have to say." 

Draco's certain he doesn't. "So how am I supposed to find this Leroy?" He doesn't know who any of the guards are. To him they're all just interchangeable uniforms. 

"We'll arrange that," Jasper says. "Get you on a work rotation where you'll run into him. You just keep that phial on you, and when you're in the right place at the right time, drink it. You read his mind, come tell me what he's got to say for himself, and then I'll give you the SIM card." He pushes the mobile towards Draco. "All right with you?"

It's risky. Draco knows that. If he's caught with the phial or the mobile, there'll be questions. And fuck only knows what will happen if the guards realise he can do magic, even for the five or ten minutes this swallow of potion might last. He chews the inside of his mouth, considering, his gaze fixed on the mobile in front of him. 

Slowly, Draco reaches out, his fingers curling around the small, boxy plastic case. It's slick and warm and heavy against his palm, and Draco closes his eyes against the flutter of hope that fills him. 

_Harry_ , he thinks. _The things I'll do to hear your voice again._

Draco looks at Jasper. "You have a deal."

And when Jasper smiles at him, those blue eyes of his crinkling at the corners, Draco can't help but wonder if he's just gone and made a deal with the devil himself. 

Fuck, but he really hopes he hasn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, you can subscribe for Tales from the Special Branch updates [here on AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/series/661862) or follow me [on tumblr at femmequixotic!](http://femmequixotic.tumblr.com). I'm taking Special Branch asks there. The next chapter of Set Me Free will post on Sunday, August 5.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Kreacher assists, Blaise comes late in the morning, and Draco is pulled off laundry duty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many apologies for posting on Wednesday! Noe and I are exhausted from vacation with family and about to move into a new home in a few days. But we’d never forget Special Branch! 
> 
> Tension continues to ratchet up, and I hope the wait has been worth it. Special shout-outs to everyone who has been commenting — you're all so perceptive and it’s amazing to see insights into the plot that even I didn’t expect. *wriggles eyebrows, stays mum* So much love to noe and to sassy-cissa, who’s just ported her [slythindor100](https://slythindor100.tumblr.com/) comm from LJ to tumblr and put up [an August Drabble challenge](https://slythindor100.tumblr.com/post/176535783026/challenge-220)!!!
> 
> As usual, I utterly fail at short chapters — this is a smidge over 20K. Again. *buries head in hands*

Harry stares blankly down at the rush of hot water spilling over his hands, frothing the foamy suds that rise in the sink beneath his splayed fingers. The overhead light casts a warm pool of light across the kitchen; the bubbles from the dishwater glitter and shine before they pop against his bare wrists. Spreading his fingers wider, he watches almost in disinterest as the water runs over them, its heat reddening his knuckles. He curls his fists; water droplets fly out of the spray, soak the front of his t-shirt before he flattens his hands again. Harry breathes out, then back in again, and the simple expansion of his lungs in his chest feels odd. Constricted. He closes his eyes for a moment. 

It's been a long, dull Thursday. Useless, really, in more ways than Harry'd like to consider. But, still, he'd gone into work, forced himself through the motions of the day, despite the worried looks he'd seen Parkinson send his way more than once. He doesn't know why she cares--except he does, in a way, and Harry's grateful for that, at least a little. 

With a soft sigh, Harry reaches for the dishcloth, drags it into the soapy water, wrings it out. Perhaps it'd be easier to use a cleaning charm on his few dinner dishes, but Harry needs the simple, steadying comfort of a task like this, of seeing the pans and plate come clean beneath his hands. He tries to breathe again, against the tightness of his chest, the rawness of his throat. 

"Come on, Potter," he says, and his voice is loud in the silence of the kitchen. "You're fine, remember?"

Except Harry isn't. He's better than he was, he supposes, but that's what happens, isn't it? You get used to things, to the way every breath aches, every thought stings. Harry drags the dishcloth over his plate. Remnants of brown sauce and bits of beef slip away from the white pottery, disappear beneath the water's surface as Harry rinses the soap off. Droplets spatter across his forearms, shining against the inky marks that still twist and prickle across his skin. Harry barely notices them any more, except when they hurt. 

More proof, he supposes, that you can become inured to almost anything, given long enough.

Tomorrow it'll be a month since they came back through the portal from Thibodaux. Sometimes Harry doesn't understand the passage of time, can't comprehend how four weeks can seem both an endless eternity and the barest heartbeat of a moment. It's mid-September now, and the days are growing shorter, the nights are getting the faintest bite of chill to them once the sun goes down. Autumn is coming, and after that, winter. The lazy warmth of a halcyon summer's faded away, and Harry's throat tightens when he thinks of Midsummer Eve, of lying naked in a field of wildflowers with Draco, their bodies twined together, Draco's skin flushed from sun and sex, pale gold hair spread around him, shining in the sun, grass and flowers tangled in it. 

Harry leans against the sink, his elbows resting on the edge, his head bent. The steam from the water fogs the edges of his glasses. His shoulders are tight, rolled high; his fingers twist the dishcloth, stretching it taut. 

"We're fine," he whispers, over and over, almost like a mantra, as if it'll be true if only he believes hard enough. "We're both fine."

And Harry can't bear to think of where Draco must be now, what those bastards must be doing to him. Awful dreams have been interrupting Harry's sleep the past few days, ones in which Harry's sure that Draco's calling out for him, but Harry can't see him, can't find him, can't do anything but stumble about blindly in darkness, unable to do a bloody fucking thing to reach that disembodied voice. And then Harry startles awake, unable to go back to sleep for hours.

Christ, he's so bloody exhausted.

He reaches into the water, and then there's a sharp sting against his skin, a bloom of pain that startles Harry, pulls him back from the spiral of his thoughts. He lifts his hand; blood wells up from a cut on his fingertip, rolls across his knuckle, mixing with the soapy water until its a pale pink before it drips off, falling into the dishwater. 

"Fuck," Harry says, and he reaches for the dishcloth, wraps it around his fingertip. For a moment, he thinks he's staunched it, but then it seeps through the wet cloth, bright red against the white and yellow stripes. "Fuck," Harry says again, and he takes a step backwards, water spattering against the dark wooden floor. 

Kreacher's beside him, pulling him to the table, and Harry sits, his thighs landing heavily on the chair. 

"Harry Potter is being foolish," Kreacher says, but his raspy voice is gentler than usual, and his fingers are careful on Harry's wrist. He pulls the dishcloth away; Harry lets him, staying silent as Kreacher leans over Harry's hand, tutting beneath his breath as if Harry were a naughty child. 

Maybe in some ways he is, Harry thinks.

"I didn't mean to," Harry says, and Kreacher looks up at him with dark, rheumy eyes. 

"You is never meaning to." Kreacher turns Harry's finger from side to side. The cut's deeper than Harry thought it was; there's a flap of skin that's lifted up, and the blood's running quicker now, catching in the waded up dishcloth that Kreacher holds beneath it. "Never with the drinking either." Harry wants to protest that he hasn't had a drink in days, but that's not true, is it? Maybe it's not as bad as it was at the beginning, but Harry knows the level of whisky in the bottle on the library sideboard is still going down. Steadily. He stays silent in the face of Kreacher's disapproving scowl. Kreacher presses his thumb against the cut, and there's a sharp flare of pain that makes Harry cry out before it fades into a faint ache. When Kreacher moves his thumb, the cut's knitting together, scabbing over. 

Kreacher nods curtly, then wipes the blood from Harry's skin. He doesn't pull his thin fingers away, though. They curl around Harry's hand, and his leathery skin is oddly soft and cool. He looks up at Harry. "People is worrying about you, Master." 

And something twists deep in Harry's belly. It's not entirely pleasant. "I don't want anyone--"

"But they is." Kreacher settles his other hand above Harry's. His touch is light, gentle. "And Master Draco would be being most unhappy with things being like this." He pats Harry. "He would be saying Harry Potter must be being more careful--"

"I am," Harry protests. "It's just a cut."

Kreacher's look is reproachful. He drops Harry's hand, pads over to the sink. His gnarled hand plunges beneath the dirty water, then comes back up with a kitchen knife clutched in his fingers. It's not one Harry remembers using--or even putting into the sink. Kreacher turns back towards Harry, holding the knife up. 

Harry rubs the back of his neck. He just looks away, and Kreacher huffs a sigh before snapping his fingers. The knife's suddenly clean; another twist of Kreacher's hand and the knife flies across the kitchen, thuds softly into the wooden block beside the hob. 

The shuffle of Kreacher's bare feet against the floor is louder than Harry expects. Kreacher's fingers are soft when they brush Harry's cheek, and then he's pulling Harry's head down, pressing his wrinkled forehead against Harry's. And it's only then that Harry realises he's not the only one grieving Draco's absence. Kreacher stands between Harry's knees, Harry's face cupped in his palms, and somehow, Harry feels less alone in all of this. Draco's not just his, Harry realises. He's become part of Grimmauld, part of this odd little family of Harry, an ancient, crotchety elf, and an apparently sentient house. 

"You is not being by yourself, Harry Potter," Kreacher murmurs. "Kreacher is promising that."

And Harry believes him. He exhales, nods. Kreacher's ear twitches against Harry's cheek. 

"Thank you," Harry says after a moment. He feels a bit scraped raw, a bit heartsore. His finger throbs, but only a little. House elf magic's strong, after all.

Kreacher pats Harry's cheek, and then he draws back. Harry oddly misses the comfort of his touch when he does. 

"Everything is being all right in the end," Kreacher says, but his eyes are troubled, and Harry wonders how much Kreacher really believes that. Maybe he has to, the same way Harry does, clinging stubbornly to that belief because they've no other choice for now. 

Harry draws in an unsteady breath, then nods again. He rubs his forearm and catches the flick of Kreacher's worried gaze towards the marks that coil across his skin, up beneath the rolled sleeves of his work shirt. Harry drops his hand. 

Kreacher's silent for a moment, and then he says, his wavery voice quiet, "You should be being showing that to Mistress Narcissa again--"

"I'm fine," Harry says, and Kreacher flinches at the sharpness of his tone. Harry looks away. He touches the edge of his sleeve, only briefly, before running his hand through his hair, pushing his fringe back off his forehead. He doesn't really know why he hasn't shown the marks to anyone else. It's not something he wants to keep secret, not entirely. But every time he thinks about doing it, about letting Hermione look at them, or Ron, something deep inside Harry pulls him back. Won't let him. He sighs. "I'll think about it," he says to Kreacher. It's the best he can offer.

Kreacher just eyes Harry steadily for a moment, then he turns, shuffles back to the sink. "Kreacher is cleaning this up now," he says over his thin shoulder. "Harry Potter should be being resting."

And Harry knows he's been dismissed. He thinks about protesting, but what good would it do? Particularly given the fact that the kitchen lights just dimmed, so Harry knows this ridiculous house of his appears to agree. The thing is, Harry doesn't want to rest. He wants to be doing something. Anything. For a moment he thinks about Flooing over to Ron and Hermione's flat, but he's been spending too much time there lately. Not that either of them would ever say that to him. Harry knows his friends love him, that they're just as worried about him as Kreacher is. But they need their own space, their own time together without Harry moping about on their sofa, feeling sorry for himself. 

To be honest, Andromeda and Teddy would welcome him in, but that would mean seeing Narcissa as well, and Harry doesn't have it in him to face down Draco's mother. Not tonight, at least. Narcissa sees past his defences in ways Harry's not always comfortable with. He can pretend with Andy, can act as if he's holding up perfectly well, but the moment Narcissa walks in the room, Harry's facade crumbles. It's why he hasn't been over for a week or so, even if he feels terribly guilty about that fact. He just can't bear to be that raw right now. Not when he has to keep himself pulled together for work as well. 

But he can't stay here in the kitchen, watching Kreacher swish the dishwater with a long, bony fingertip, the few dishes that are left clinking and clattering beneath the suds. Harry feels too exposed, too restless. He rubs at the inky marks again, and then he pushes himself up. 

"I'm going for a run," he says, and when Kreacher looks over at him with a frown, Harry's hackles rise. "I won't rest until I get some of this out." He shakes his hands a bit, as if doing so might release some of the energy he feels prickling across his skin. It doesn't, but Harry can tell himself it feels better, even if he knows he's lying to himself. Nothing ever truly seems to ease this sense of something twisting beneath the surface, setting his nerves on edge with every breath. Sparring in the Auror gym helps some, he's found, but not entirely. And right now Harry just wants to see if he can outrun this feeling, if only for a moment or two. 

Kreacher doesn't stop him when he leaves; the house is dim around him as he climbs the stairs, his boots a grim thump against each step. 

Harry's stopped sleeping in the bedroom. It reminds him too much of Draco; at first, he'd needed to stay in there, needed to smell the scent of Draco as he wrapped himself around Draco's pillow, needed to touch Draco's shirts and trousers still hanging in the dressing room. But now he can't bear it, seeing them there in the shadows, a reminder of how Harry's failed to bring Draco home. 

The spare room serves Harry well enough now, at least on the nights when he makes it upstairs to sleep. Sometimes he just wraps himself in a blanket, dozes on the sofa in the library. On the good nights, he dreams of the Floo flaring to life, of Draco stepping through, finding Harry waiting for him. 

But even then, Harry wakes up in the wee hours of the morning to an emptiness inside of him, one that echoes through the house, tempting him to reach for the whisky on the sideboard.

Sometimes he does.

Harry doesn't bother to close the spare room door behind him; no one's here to care if he shucks off his clothes in the middle of the room, leaving them crumpled on the floor. He Summons a pair of running shorts and a t-shirt from his wardrobe in his--their--bedroom, instead of walking in to get them himself. He doesn't want to see the indent in Draco's pillow, the one that Harry's buried his own face into more than once over the past month. 

If Draco doesn't come home, Harry'll put the house up for sale. He's already decided that, even though he's kept it to himself for now. Ron and Hermione would try to talk him out of it, Harry knows, telling him that he should keep it because of its ties to Sirius. To the Order. And maybe they'd be right. But Harry doesn't want to stay here, not if Draco isn't with him. 

Sometimes he wonders if the house already knows this. 

Harry casts a Lumos. It's not dark outside yet, although twilight's starting to fall, but the house is gloomy, the shadows long and grey in the corners. "Cheer up," Harry says as the sconces sputter to life, a faint warm glow spilling from them, and he's not certain if he's talking to himself or Grimmauld. Perhaps both of them. 

The running shorts are looser than they've been, sliding down Harry's hips. He tightens the drawstring; it helps some, but if Harry keeps losing weight like this, he'll need to buy another pair or two soon. It surprises him. Harry thinks he's been eating enough, but maybe he's wrong. 

He studies his reflection in the old, splotched mirror above the dresser. Harry's shoulders are still broad, still muscular, but there's a slump to them that wasn't there before and his face is drawn, lined. Tired. Harry looks older than twenty-six now, but not in a way he can explain. There's a dangerous set to his mouth, a darkness to his gaze that Harry doesn't really recognise, even as he understands it. 

Slowly, Harry rolls his shoulders back, studying the shift of his muscles beneath his skin. He reaches out, touches the ink-black swirls on his forearm, trails the curve of them higher. They're above his elbow now, rising up over the swell of his bicep. Harry almost thinks he can see them shift, can see them curl up an inch or two more beneath his fingertips, but that's madness. Or perhaps it's not, given he knows the marks are expanding, growing larger, covering his skin in intricate black patterns, symbols and words blurring together as Harry stares at them. 

Harry can feel their power move inside of him, and it's both strange and familiar at the same time. Almost as if this is something comfortingly known to him. 

It can't be, of course. But as Harry drags a fingertip along a curlicue of ink that stains his bicep, he can't help but think he's felt this before.

Kreacher's right. Harry should show this to Narcissa Malfoy. It's Dark, she'd told him before, and Harry suspects she's right. Even more so given how reluctant he is to reveal the marks, to let anyone else know they're burned into his flesh. But then he thinks of Élodie Durant--or her shade, at least--and how she'd told him he was chosen. That he was bonded to that damned cup of Death's. And Harry doesn't know how he could explain that in a way that doesn't make him sound absolutely mental. 

He drops his hand. Stands in front of the mirror like the fool that he is. Closes his eyes. Exhales. 

And in that moment of silence, he hears it. The faintest of whispers, just along the edges of his consciousness. Harry feels the pull before he understands it, and his eyes flutter open. His heart beats faster. 

The whisper comes again, a dry rattle of breath, a lonesome rustle of dry leaves. The faintly sweet scent of decay. 

Harry walks out of the spare room. He doesn't know where his feet are taking him. Not until he finds himself in his bedroom, standing in front of his wardrobe. He opens it, almost without thinking. The whisper grows louder. More compelling. 

It's hidden in the back of the wardrobe where he'd left it years ago. The silvery fabric is featherlight against his fingers, cool and smooth and familiar as it slips across his skin. Harry pulls the cloak out, his hand shaking beneath its folds. The ink on his arm burns, tingles, but not uncomfortably. More as if in excitement than pain, Harry thinks, and he draws the cloak on, pulls the hood up over his head. 

Harry's breath stutters. 

Wearing the cloak has never been like this before. The fabric settles against Harry's bare shoulders, the whispers growing louder and louder, becoming a rushing roar of unintelligible voices and sounds until Harry claps his hands to his ears, falls to his knees. 

A deep silence takes its place. 

Harry's gasping, his body shaking. He lowers his hands, looks around. The room looks different, and yet the same, as if Harry's seeing another layer lying on top of it, almost matching up, if not quite. 

There's a movement in the hallway, and Harry pushes himself to his feet, stumbles forward, catching himself on the door jamb, his fingers curling around the smooth wood which somehow, oddly, feels splintered beneath his touch. 

A young man runs down the staircase from the third floor, and for a moment Harry's heart stills. He looks so much like Sirius that Harry can't think, can't breathe, and then the boy--because he can't be out of Hogwarts, Harry's certain of that--looks Harry's way. His features are wispy, hard to see, but Harry meets his gaze, and for a moment, the boy's face solidifies. Just long enough. 

"Regulus," Harry whispers, and he knows it has to be Sirius' little brother. The resemblance is too strong.

The boy--Regulus--just looks at Harry, and then he turns his head, almost as if he can't stop himself, and he runs on, down the staircase, disappearing through the brocaded wall on the landing.

Harry steps backward, his heel catching on the hem of the cloak. He falls; the hood slides back from his head, the rest of the cloak following, pooling on the floor beneath Harry's arse, and the room slides into focus again. 

Somehow Harry skitters back against the bed, kicking the cloak away from him, towards the wardrobe. It lies in a shimmering jumble beside the rounded legs, the edge of the silvery fabric sliding beneath the shadowed edge of the wardrobe. 

Harry's hands are trembling. He presses them beneath his arms, his fingernails digging into his skin. The whispers are fainter now, almost gone. Harry leans his head against the edge of the mattress, exhales. His skin smarts, stings, and when Harry looks down, the ink is darker against his skin, the edges of the marks reddening. He rubs his palm over them; they settle at the touch.

"Fuck," Harry murmurs. He doesn't know what just happened. He's not certain he wants to. But there has to be some connection between the ink on his skin and the way the cloak felt. It was almost as if Harry'd been moving between two worlds, the present and something entirely new, entirely different. Something Harry doesn't understand. 

He reaches out, touches the cloak. _The Hallow,_ his mind whispers, and Harry twists his fingers around the fabric. He doesn't know what to do. Harry pulls the cloak onto his lap and sits silently in the lengthening shadows, barely able to breathe. 

"I have to tell Hermione," he says out loud, but the words catch in the back of his throat, and he knows he won't. He can't. 

Not yet at least.

***

Draco's sweaty and tired. He's been folding shirts and trousers and jumpsuits in the Oudepoort laundry since just after breakfast, with only a short break for lunch. To be honest, he's not entirely certain he hasn't gone through the exact same uniforms more than once today; it seems almost impossible that there'd be this much laundry on a daily basis, even at a prison this size. Still better than the filth of Azkaban, though. Draco sets a tidy stack of orange trousers in a canvas basket to be sorted into proper divisions and then cell blocks. The guards have some way of managing that. Probably magic. Merlin knows the lazy bastards wouldn't raise a finger if they weren't required to.

And that swell of bitterness surprises Draco. His gaze flicks over towards the three guards, leaning indolently against the wall beside the door as they watch the prisoners. Draco'd always thought he'd support his fellow Aurors--whether beat constables, CID, or prison guards--but the longer he's in Oudepoort, the more he resents them for their power over him, for the way their eyes slide over him as if he's barely human to them, the way they mock him, call him Johnny in those disparaging tones that make it quite clear how much they hold him in disdain. 

Not that they know a damned thing about him. He's a John Doe to them, a nobody. Just an Auror who went bad--and there's a part of him that can't entirely fault them for the way they hate him in that regard. Draco's felt the same about Marcus Wrightson, after all. To these guards, he's a stain on their reputation. They hate him for that. 

Draco drags the back of his hand against his forehead, wiping away the sweat that's dripping into his eyes. The machines rumble and roar behind him; another pile of shirts comes out, is spilled across the stained white plastic top of the table he's stood at. With a sigh, Draco picks one of them up. The heat from the heavy cotton nearly burns his fingers, and he drops the shirt, swearing beneath his breath. His shoulders ache; he wants to just lie down in the quiet solitude of his cell and sleep. No chance of that until well after dinner, though. Thursday nights are filled with education workshops for the prisoners, or so the guards call them. Draco'd say they're more like indoctrination, sessions that are meant to show them the error of their ways, scare them back into the safety of law-abiding citizenry. 

They don't work, and they never will. Not without addressing the real reasons these men have fallen into crime. Some, like Jasper Durant, were born into it. Others, like Durant's friend Jonks, trusted the wrong people. Some want out of prison; some feel safer inside these walls. Draco wonders sometimes if Aurors should be forced to stay in prison, if they should see firsthand what it's like to be tucked away behind cell bars. It changes a man, Draco thinks. 

It's changing him already. In ways Draco's not entirely certain he understands yet. 

He picks the shirt up again. Folds it. Sets it aside. It's a steady rhythm, one that Draco falls into easily. He stops thinking. It's easier that way, easier to sink into half a trance, to just fold and fold and fold again as the moments and seconds pass. He loses track of time. There's no window here to show the passage of the afternoon, to fade daylight into shadows. 

Draco finds it strangely comforting. 

The stack of shirts grows higher. He starts a new one, pushing the old one to the back of the table. Fold, fold, turn, fold. Over and over and over again.

A shudder goes through him, quick and unexpected. Someone walking over his grave, his grandmother would have said, and Draco's folding slows. His stomach roils; he drops a shirt, picks it up from the ground. The world tilts around him, and he grabs the edge of the table, holding it tight. For a moment, he thinks he feels Harry in the depths of his mind, feels something odd, something not-right. Draco exhales, tries to hook into that little bit of Harry, that thought-memory-sense that's wiggling so familiarly inside of him, that makes his heart pound, sends a flutter of fear through him. It's almost as if he can see Harry, sat on the floor of their bedroom in Grimmauld Place, a silver fabric twisted around his fingers. Draco blinks, and the image is gone from his mind, leaving behind an uncertain feeling. Empty, almost. 

Draco looks down at his own hands. The orange of a prison shirt is twined around his fingers, so tight the flesh is pale white at the tips. He lets the fabric loosen; sharp prickles dance across his skin as the blood flow resumes.

Whatever that was, Draco doesn't like it. He's not certain if it's his mind playing tricks on him, the first faint flickers of the madness that brought his aunt down, or if he's actually feeling Harry, connecting mentally with him across all these thousands of miles separating them. 

Probably the former, Draco thinks grimly. Burke had warned him, after all, that some minds can't handle the strain of Legilimency. Aunt Bella's had been one. 

The door opens. Heads turn; that never happens before the end of their shift. Even Draco's learnt that much this week. Another guard comes in, bends his head towards the others, saying something to them. The burliest guard--tall and broad shouldered with the thickest beard Draco's ever seen on a man--nods, then looks Draco's way. 

"Johnny," the guard shouts, and he catches Draco's gaze. "Get over here."

Draco hesitates. The other prisoners watch him, and Draco knows by their uneasy expressions that this can't mean anything good. Until, that is, he catches sight of Bobby in the corner, his eyes fixed on Draco's. Bobby nods, ever so slightly, and Draco tenses in understanding. This is what Jasper Durant had warned him was coming. A change in his work rotation to get him closer to that guard. Leroy. 

"Now," the guard says, his voice rising, and Draco steps back from the table, leaving the piles of shirts in place. He touches the pocket of his trousers; the small phial Bobby had given him yesterday is still there, hidden away. 

He can feel the others looking at him as he passes through the room. Murmurs follow him, but Draco's used to that. He keeps his shoulders stiff, his back upright. They can say what they want; he doesn't care. 

"Come with me," the new guard says. Bosworth, his name tag reads, and Draco follows him up the steps and out of the room. The door closes behind them; the noise of the laundry fading as Bosworth strides down the corridor, Draco at his heels.

Draco's silent until they turn the corner. "Where are we--"

"You're being moved for the day," Bosworth says, but he doesn't look back at Draco. "Cleaning duty."

For a moment Draco thinks about asking who authorised that shift, but it doesn't matter. Not in the end. Jasper Durant's bribed someone, he thinks. In some way. Jasper's a cadgey arsehole, one Draco's starting to appreciate, as much as he hates to admit it. 

Bosworth stops in front of a tall door, pulling a set of keys from his pocket. He unlocks the door, pushes it open. "Go on," he says, and Draco steps through the doorway into a long, wide office filled with desks. Guards are scattered throughout, sat behind piles of paperwork. 

Draco's heart thuds. He feels off-kilter, his worry about Harry still lingering. His gaze goes to the clock hanging on the far wall. Half-three, it reads, which would make it half-eight in London. Draco wonders where Harry is, if he's still at the Ministry or if he's home, the way Draco's imagined him. He closes his eyes for a moment, thinks about the look he'd thought he'd seen on Harry's face, and he's not sure which would be worse. Harry working too hard, trying not to think, or Harry alone at Grimmauld tonight. 

"Tatlock," Bosworth says, and a man in an orange uniform looks up from the bin he's been emptying. "Brought you some help."

"Who said I need it?" Tatlock's thin and slope-shouldered, his skin a light, sallow brown, and the look he gives Draco is suspicious. "Youngblood been bitching about me being too slow again?"

Bosworth's hand settles between Draco's shoulder blades. He pushes him forward. "Just shut up and show him what to do."

Tatlock walks over, a bin bag dragging behind him, his gait a bit uneven and unsteady. He scowls, but at Bosworth's glare, Tatlock pulls another bin bag from the stash tucked in the waistband of his trousers and hands it to Draco. 

Draco takes it gingerly. Merlin only knows what else has been down Tatlock's trousers. One thing he's learnt in the laundry is that half the men in Oudepoort don't bother with pants. "It seems fairly self-explanatory," Draco says, looking down the rows of desks. "Emptying the bins?"

"The what?" Tatlock's brows draw together. He scratches his jaw. "You mean the trash? Yeah. There's one behind every desk, and you'd better get them all. These bastards get a bit shitty if you miss one." 

Ridiculous, Draco thinks. His gaze sweeps across the room. He's no idea what Jasper Durant wants of him here, or even if this bloody Leroy's about. Still, the air's cooler here than it is in the laundry, so Draco can't complain about that, and emptying bins is easier work than folding piles of shirts until his arms ache. He starts down the aisle, taking the bin from the desk across from Tatlock. They work silently for a moment, then Draco glances over at him again. "How'd you end up on this rotation?" 

"Blew the warden," Tatlock says, and then at Draco's raised eyebrow, he snorts. "That's what everyone thinks." He picks up another bin, empties it into his bag, then sets it down again before he says, "My lawyer pulled some strings." He glances over at Draco. "Got a bad back and a bum knee. This sort of easy shit's the only thing I can do, getting rid of trash, cleaning the floors, that sort of thing." He shrugs, moves on to another desk. "Can't say it makes me popular with the other fuckers in this hellhole, but I stopped giving a damn about what they say a long time ago." Tatlock frowns as he peels a sticky wrapper for Gagliardi's Best Ice Cream Bars from the side of a bin. He drops it into his bag, wiping his fingers on the side of his trousers. 

If he's honest, Draco's a bit relieved that Tatlock's chatty. He's spent too long in his own head lately; it's good to have someone else talk at him for a bit. "How long have you been here?" he asks, a bit distractedly as he studies the rest of the room. 

"Fifteen years?" Tatlock sounds a bit uncertain. "Something like that. Came in when I was nearly twenty, so it should be close, at least." He shakes the contents of the bin into his bag. Something sickly-sweet and half-rotten falls out. Draco looks away, his stomach roiling. Tatlock doesn't seem bothered by it. "They like to leave presents sometimes," he says. "The slimier the better." He glances at Draco. "Nilsson's the worst about it, but he's a fucking dick." 

They move down the aisle. Draco's all too aware of the guards as they pass, and he checks the nameplates on each desk that he stops at. No Leroy anywhere. He wonders if Jasper's fucked something up, but Draco doesn't think Durant's father is that stupid. Or stupid at all, really. In fact, he suspects everyone--Durant included--underestimates Jasper, and Jasper probably prefers it that way. 

Draco can feel Tatlock looking over at him. "Something wrong?" Draco asks after a moment, and he can't keep an edge of belligerent sharpness from his voice. 

Tatlock scowls, but he just shrugs. "Just curious." He keeps his voice low, and his gaze darts over to a group of guards gathered around one desk at the end of the room. "Heard you were a lawman once." 

Of course he had. Draco picks up a bin, dumps its contents into his bag. The smell of too-strong coffee drifts up from a several crumpled paper cups. Someone must have had a rough morning, Draco thinks. He glances at Tatlock. "What if I was?" Draco tries to keep his tone even. He's learning he has to; prison's made the men around him quick-tempered and captious. 

"Not many of your people end up here." Tatlock's gaze is sharp, a bit too much so for Draco's comfort. "Or end up under Jasper Durant's protection."

And Draco doesn't know what to say to that. He puts the bin back down, shrugs. "Maybe I'm useful." The smile he turns on Tatlock is cold, vicious. "Or maybe I'm just dangerous."

"Maybe." Tatlock doesn't seem convinced. "You're a weird one, Johnny boy."

Draco doesn't correct him. There's no sense in it; not here, at least. 

"Hey, Tatlock." One of the guards--a woman with broad shoulders, short blonde curls, and a delicately elfin face--looks over at them, a frown on her face. "Less chatting with your new buddy there, and more work." She leans back in her chair, glances up at the clock. "Shift change is at four, and you've still got the bathrooms to scrub down."

Another guard laughs. "Yeah, and I just saw Flores head that way with a copy of today's _Ghost_ , so good luck with that, man." He shakes his bald head, his bald pate gleaming a dark brown beneath the bright lamplight. "Wouldn't see me go anywhere near there for the next fifteen minutes."

Tatlock rolls his eyes at him. "Go on, yuk it up, Wilson," he says, and Draco's surprised by his easy defiance. "Not like I don't know about that little chocolate Dragot problem you've got at your desk." He gives Wilson's small, rounded belly a pointed look. "Give yourself goddamn diabetes soon enough, you keep that up."

"Says you." Wilson just grins, his hands tucked behind his head as he twists back and forth in his chair. His shirt stretches taut against his body. "I'm the perfect poster boy for good health according to the doc."

The door opens, and two guards come in, their heads bent together. 

"Leroy," Wilson calls out, and Draco looks up at the same time as one of the new guards, a tall, burly man with ginger hair. "Tell Tatlock here I passed my physical with flying colours."

"Fuck only knows how, the way you eat," Leroy says easily, clapping a hand on the shoulder of the man he'd walked in with. "Let me know what Tina thinks about Saturday," he says to him. "Our kids would love to see yours again, and I wouldn't mind throwing a few more steaks on the grill." He lopes over to a nearby desk and drops down into his chair before turning it towards Wilson. "Tatty ragging you about your chocolate habit again?"

"Shitty chocolate at that," Tatlock mumbles under his breath, but loud enough for Wilson to hear. He just chuckles, a low, deep rumble of amusement that makes Tatlock frown at him even more. 

Draco eyes Leroy. He doesn't know what he expected, but this easy-going man isn't it. Draco'd expected someone a little more….fuck, but he doesn't know. Grimy and rat-faced, maybe, he thinks. Someone who'd be willing to take a bit of dosh on the side from the likes of Jasper Durant. Not a family man with kids. 

His hand goes to his pocket again, his fingers pressing through the orange cotton, against the phial. For a moment he thinks about not doing this, about what would happen if any of them see him down the potion--or worse yet, if some sort of alarm goes off, alerting them to the fact that his magic is active again. Draco can still feel the dampeners even in here, that heavy weight pressing against his skin that he's half-used to now, whether he wants to be or not. 

Tatlock's still saying something to Wilson, a desk or two ahead. Draco isn't paying attention. His throat is tight, his palms sweaty. He could chose not to do Jasper's bidding, and there's a part of him that's sure he shouldn't, that knows once he opens this door, there's no closing it again. Jasper will have him under his thumb. Firmly and completely. Draco's not happy about that. 

And then Draco thinks of the mobile hidden in his cell, tucked beneath the mattress ticking that he'd unpicked late at night along one seam. If he does this, he can ring Harry up, can hear his voice, can tell him where he is, that he's alive. 

Draco knows he doesn't have a choice. Not really. 

He picks up the next bin, empties it into his bag. It's easy enough to pretend to have dropped something, to bend down behind the desk as if he's retrieving it and, instead, to slide the small phial from his pocket. He screws the cap off with the side of his thumb. There's only a mouthful of potion in it; Draco swallows it quickly, trying not to grimace at the bitter taste as he stands again, slipping the empty phial into the rubbish bag. It takes a moment, and then he can feel the potion take effect, can feel the pulse of magic through him, quick and sharp and, Merlin but Draco feels powerful again. 

It's a heady rush, and Draco thinks about using it, about fighting his way out of this damned place. Escaping. 

That urge fades. He'd never make it through the front gates. Not alive, at least, and Draco knows it. He drags his tongue across his bottom lip. It's still rough and scabbed. His beard itches, and he scratches it, dragging his bag down one desk closer to Wilson and Leroy. His step is lighter, unencumbered by the pressure of the dampening charms. Hexes, more like it, he thinks grimly. Cruel and unusual punishment for wizards and witches, albeit slightly more humane than controlling a prison population with Dementors, Draco supposes. He may have no magic, but he's been left his mind, at least. 

No one seems to notice him. No alarms are ringing. It's almost anticlimactic, really, this sting of magic against his fingertips. Draco flexes his hands, his fingers splaying wide. He could do anything, and that realisation is tempting. 

Draco pulls himself back from that thought. He doesn't know how long the potion will last, so if he's going to do this, he might as well get it over with. He moves closer to Leroy, reaching for the next bin as he lets his mind drift towards the guard, carefully, cautiously. He keeps himself in check; the last thing he needs is to be clumsy about this, to give Leroy any indication that his mind is being invaded. He doesn't look at Leroy, doesn't act as if he's paying any attention to the guards at all. If he does this properly, he'll only be another prisoner's face to them. Nothing will stand out. 

It's easy to slip into Leroy's mind. Perhaps that shouldn't be surprising, given the guards wouldn't be expecting anything like this, what with the dampeners in place. Still, Leroy's an easy subject after Draco's training with Muriel Burke, and it only takes a moment or two of sifting through Leroy's memories for Draco to find what he's looking for. 

Leroy in the warden's office. Or at least Draco thinks it must be the warden. He's never met him, but there's an older, white-haired man in an expensive suit behind a mahogany desk looking at Leroy, his face disappointed. 

_You've been spending some time with Jasper Durant, Mr Hayes._ The warden leans forward, his hands clasped in front of him. _You wouldn't want to tell me what that's about, would you?_

Draco can feel the uneven pulse of Leroy's heartbeat, the way he'd shifted in his chair. _Just keeping an eye on him, sir._

The warden had raised a bushy eyebrow. _Is that what we're calling it?_

Leroy had nodded, but his grip on the arms of his chair had been tight. 

_I see._ The warden sighed, settled back in his chair, watching Leroy for a long moment. _You've got two kids, don't you, Leroy?_

And the use of Leroy's first name had made him tense up, Draco realises. A thought flits across his mind--not one of his own. The warden never did that. Not unless he wanted something. And if the warden wanted something from you, you were about to be seriously fucked. 

_Two boys,_ Leroy said, his heart pounding. _Sir._

The warden had nodded. Fallen silent again. Leroy had sat forward in his chair, about to speak when the warden had cleared his throat. _Be a shame for their daddy to go from guarding the prisoners to being one._

And Leroy had stilled, his throat dry. _I--_

_That can all be overlooked, of course._ The warden had given Leroy a thin, tight smile. _With a bit of assistance from you in helping to shut down Mr Durant's activities._ He'd raised an eyebrow again. _I'm certain you'd be willing to help, wouldn't you? To make certain you go home to those boys of yours every night._

Leroy hadn't been able to do anything other than nod. He'd rubbed his hands against the arm of the chair, then said _What do I need to do?_

_Just give me information, Mr Hayes._ The warden's smile hadn't reached his icy blue eyes. That's all I want right now. Information.

"Yo, Johnny." The voice pulls Draco away. "You missed a desk."

Draco lets his mind slip from Leroy's. He turns, blinking. Tatlock's frowning at him. 

"Everything okay, man?" Tatlock looks a bit uneasy. "You're goddamn pale as a sheet, which is saying something, seeing how fucking white you are anyway."

"I'm fine." Draco's voice cracks, and he swallows. The potion's wearing off; he can feel the weight of the dampeners starting to settle against him again, and he wants to scream, to push against them, to hold on to that last lingering wisp of magic that's beginning to seep away.

"You don't look fine." Tatlock rubs his scruffy jaw. "Look, I can make these assholes send you to the infirmary if you want--"

Draco gives him a tight, wan smile, then shakes his head. The last thing he wants is one of the prison Healers prodding him right now. Not with the remnants of the potion in his system. "Just a little tired. That's all." He lets his shirt slide to one side, showing the yellowed bruises on his neck and shoulder. "Gets to me sometimes."

Tatlock nods, his gaze fixed on Draco's bruises, and something in his demeanour shifts. Opens up. "It's like that sometimes." He glances at the guards, and there's a shadow on his face that wasn't there before. "Even with the decent ones." He walks over to Draco, rests a hand on his arm, pats lightly. Draco tries not to wince; he understands the gesture as an attempt at camaraderie. "We got your back in here, man. Especially with Jas looking out for you."

And really, Draco hates that the thought has a certain modicum of comfort to it. "Thanks," he says, a bit reluctantly, but it's enough for Tatlock. 

"Let's finish this up," Tatlock says. "I'll even take on Flores' bathroom. Let you have the one the chicks use instead."

It's an offer Draco's no intention of refusing. He reaches for his rubbish bag, dragging it back to the desk he missed. He picks up the bin, looks over at Leroy, who's reaching for a file jacket. Their gazes meet for a moment, but there's no recognition in Leroy's eyes. No realisation that he's been discovered. 

Draco almost feels sorry for the man. Jasper Durant's going to be livid. Draco knows that. And Jasper's not someone Draco wants to cross. Not if he can help it. A prickle of something goes through his belly as he sets the bin back down. 

He moves on to the next desk, his step slowing as he recognises the feeling for what it is.

Fear.

***

"You're making me late, you know." Blaise's cheek rubs against the soft, rumpled cotton of the pillowcase, his body stretched taut under Jake's, his thighs spread wide.

They'd woken up wrapped around each other this morning before the alarm, Blaise pressed against Jake, his arm slung possessively across Jake's shoulder, his face crushed into the curve of Jake's neck, as if by doing so Blaise could keep Jake close to him, could mark Jake as his own. They'd fought again last night, but Jake had ended it not by storming out like Blaise had expected--had, in some ways, wanted--but instead by pushing Blaise against the wall and kissing him until Blaise couldn't quite remember why he was so furious with Jake to begin with. 

And then this morning, all Jake had done was look at Blaise, his gaze soft and warm, his curls unkempt and loose across his forehead, and Blaise's heart had stuttered once more, his prick swelling against Jake's muscular hip. He hadn't even cared when the alarm went off, not once Jake's fist was curled around his cock, stroking lightly as he pushed Blaise back into the sweaty tangle of duvet and sheets.

Jake laughs, a soft huff of breath against the back of Blaise's ear as he leans over Blaise and nips at the nape of Blaise's neck. The quick flare of pain lights Blaise's nerves up, makes him shudder with want, his arse stretched wide by the heavy girth of Jake's cock . "Do you want me to pull my dick out of you?" Jake's hips still. "I can finish myself off."

Blaise misses the steady roll of Jake's hips almost immediately, as much as he loves the weight of Jake holding him down. He pushes himself up on his elbows, tries to rock back against Jake, but he can't. Jake's too broad, too strong, and there's something about that fact that makes Blaise's prick throb, pressed into the mattress. Blaise is used to being the arsehole in bed, the one who sets the pace, who teases and taunts until his partner's trembling with want. It's not like that with Jake, even when Blaise feels in control, even when it's Blaise's cock pressed deep inside of Jake. It's nothing to do with topping or bottoming or any sexual dynamic at all, Blaise realises. This is just who Jake is, the kind of man in whose wide, heavy hands Blaise wants to come apart. Entirely. Completely. Knowing the whole time that when he does Jake will put him back together again. 

There's a shivery sense of freedom in that realisation, one Blaise has never had with the women he's fucked. Or the handful of men he's brought home for a night's shag or a dirty weekend or two.

Circe but it's fucking terrifying as well. Blaise lets his forehead drop back to the pillow. He's a bit shocked by his own shamelessness, his neediness when it comes to Jake.

"Hey." Jake's hand is soft, careful, tracing small circles across Blaise's shoulder. "If you think you should be in, we don't have to--"

"No," Blaise says, his voice surprisingly uneven to his own ears, and he reaches back, catches Jake's hip with his fingers to keep him from pulling away. It's Friday, after all. Blaise thinks he's due a late morning this once. He swallows, draws in a quick breath. "I can handle the guv." 

Jake hesitates, and then he presses a kiss to Blaise's shoulder, his hips rolling into Blaise's once more. Blaise spreads his legs even wider, enjoying the twinging stretch of his arsehole with each of Jake's strokes, the faint painful pressure of his own prick and bollocks being pressed into the bed once more. 

And, really, Blaise supposes that it's a mark of how far they've come that he can mention Potter whilst Jake's buried bollocks deep inside of him without that at least starting a row. Despite all of the fighting of the past week, Blaise has no doubt that there's nothing left between the guv and Jake. Lately, when Blaise has been worried about the guv, it's only because Potter misses Draco so much, not because Blaise is fretting about whether or not Jake still has feelings for him. Or vice versa. And as much as Blaise feels a right twat about it, that's an enormous relief. 

Jake shifts over Blaise, groaning a little as he moves inside of Blaise. Merlin, it feels amazing, that small shift of Jake's prick deep with Blaise. Jake braces himself on his elbow, bending down once more to Blaise's ear. 

"You know, I could always write you a note." Jake's lips are soft and warm against Blaise's skin. "Tell Harry you just needed a good fucking this morning."

His soft drawl gives Blaise the shivers. Blaise reaches out, curls his fingers through the narrow slats of his headboard, pushes himself back against Jake's body. The pleasure keeps building at the base of his spine, and he knows he's got to hurry a bit, but it's so bloody good. There's some sort of briefing in his diary for eleven, and the guv is going to be edgy because he's testifying in front of the Wizengamot this afternoon, but Blaise really couldn't care less about any of that. Not now at least. At this very moment, he just wants Jake to shag him into the mattress. He'll deal with the consequences later.

"Just do your bloody job, you lazy arsehole." Blaise half-laughs into the soft grey pillowcase, knowing this will likely infuriate Jake. "Stop faffing about and get to it."

There's a muffled expletive against Blaise's throat, and then Jake's hips slam into Blaise, over and over and over again, and Blaise is lifted higher, beyond thought, beyond words, beyond anything but this explosive want and need and a tendril of something he can only think of as the physical pull of his body to Jake's. It utterly defies logic.

"How's this?" Jake asks between thrusts, his body shaking Blaise's to its core. He pulls Blaise's hips up off the bed, jerking Blaise back over his thighs. His bollocks slap against Blaise's skin; the bed creaks and groans with the effort of Jake's brilliant assault on Blaise's arse. "Effective enough for you?" Jake's gasping, his fingers digging tight and hard into Blaise's flesh. This is what Blaise wants, to be shagged into oblivion, to feel nothing but the thrill of Jake taking him, wanting him this badly. This wholly.

"Fuck, yes." Blaise's almost there, so close that he can taste the sharp tang of his own desire. He throws his head back, bites his lip, pushes to meet Jake's thrusts. The bed shakes beneath their knees, the headboard slamming against the wall. Fuck only knows what the neighbours think, and a wild trill of laughter bubbles up in Blaise's throat, comes out as a ragged gasp. The rhythm between them builds, slides; Blaise can feel himself opening even more to Jake physically and--if he's being truthful--emotionally as well. He doesn't want to, wants to keep parts of himself closed off, but in these moments he can't do anything but let go. If he wants release, he has to give up control.

He knows this, as much as he fights against it.

So Blaise lets go. There's a blindingly sharp moment where his senses converge, and he almost, for a moment, thinks he's flying. He tenses, arches, his body drawn tight as pleasure throbs around him, inside of him, across his skin, through his muscles. Nothing is like this. Nothing. Blaise can feel Jake's pulse, almost as if he's in Jake's skin as well. 

And then Blaise collapses, his shaking thighs and arms unable to hold him up any longer. He's gasping, gulping for breath, his mind deliciously blank, his body trembling with the aftershocks of his orgasm. He can feel the sticky spunk smeared across his belly, shudders as his softening cock drags almost painfully across the duvet when he shifts his body.

Jake slides out of Blaise, and Blaise hates that moment when he feels empty, loose, but Jake leans over him, his own breath ragged and raw as his fingers wrap around his prick. Blaise turns his head, watches as Jake rises up over him, his pale gold skin damp and shining with sweat, his chest flushed, his nipples hard and pink, his wet and ruddy cock sliding through his clenched fist, slickness dripping from the swollen slit. 

Blaise has never seen anyone more beautiful in his life. 

"That's it," Blaise murmurs, and he lifts his arse up from the mattress, only an inch or two, but enough that Jake groans, reaches out to touch the smooth curve where his arsecheek meets his thigh. "You want to come on me, don't you?"

"Goddamn," Jake manages to get out, and then his head falls back, his throat a long, sweaty stretch, and he's pulling himself harder, faster. 

"Look." Blaise shifts, reaches back, holds his arsecheeks open for Jake to see his stretched hole. "You did this." He fingers his puffy skin, shivers as his thumb slides ever so slightly inside. Blaise wants this, wants the sticky sweetness of Jake's release on him, wants to feel Jake come against his skin. 

Jake makes a noise, rough and harsh, and then he's pushing Blaise's hand away, sliding his own finger into Blaise's aching body, then another one, and he cries out as spunk flies from his prick, over his fist, spattering against Blaise's thighs, over his arse.

The weight of Jake as he sinks onto Blaise is amazing. Comforting, even, and Blaise lets himself breathe in the scent of Jake's come, of his sweat, of his naked want. 

"You're a filthy boy," Jake murmurs against Blaise's shoulder. His fingers are still inside Blaise, caught between the two of them, and Blaise loves the way they feel, the tips crooked ever so lightly against the rim of Blaise's hole. "You know that, right?" Jake presses a kiss against the curve of Blaise's throat. 

"I don't hear you complaining." 

Jake just laughs into Blaise's skin, soft and warm and deep, and they lie there for a long moment, their bodies still pressed together, Jake anchoring Blaise in ways he doesn't quite know how to describe. 

Blaise doesn't want to break this moment. Not when they've had so many that are fraught. But he can hear the clock ticking from across the room, and he knows he has to go in to work. As much as he'd rather stay here, wrapped around Jake. "Scourgify me," he says finally, regretfully. "If you've a wand nearby still."

"Give me a moment." Jake shifts, his fingers sliding out of Blaise's body, much to Blaise's dismay. His arm reaches across Blaise to the nightstand, fumbling for the wand he'd left there last night. It only takes a moment for the spell to spark across Blaise's skin, removing most of the spunk from his body. "Better?" Jake rolls to the side, flopping onto his back and looking over at Blaise. He looks blissfully shagged out, and Blaise can't help but lean in and kiss him, their lips slowly parting.

"For now." Blaise smoothes a hand over Jake's cheek. "Merlin, you look gorgeous like this."

Jake gives him a slow, lazy smile. "Not so bad yourself, Zabini," he says, and he catches Blaise's mouth with his again. It's a deep kiss, one that makes Blaise's toes dig into the mattress, makes Blaise think about ringing the guv up, telling him he's a terrible case of the Dragon Pox or something. 

Blaise pulls away. "I have to go to work," he says with a sigh, and he sits up. His body aches in the best of ways; his arse feels stretched and bruised and utterly brill. The clock at the bedside reads eight fifty-three. He's supposed to be at the incident room in seven minutes and that's not bloody going to happen, no matter how quickly Blaise moves. He might make it into the incident room before half-nine if he hurries.

"I'm taking the shower," Blaise says, as he pushes himself to his feet, steeling himself to not look back to his lean, rangy, raw-boned boyfriend sprawled across his sheets. He simply hasn't the time. Besides, Jake is fucking gorgeous every day, even the days when Blaise hates his stupid face. If Blaise stopped to gawk at Jake every time the bastard took his breath away, he'd never get anything done.

"You want coffee?" Jake calls out as Blaise heads into the bath. "Because I sure as fuck do."

Blaise snorts. "Addict," he shouts back, but he's smiling a bit when he glances at himself in the mirror above the sink. He looks well-fucked, he thinks, and a hell of a lot calmer than he'd been last night. Or for the past few days, if he's honest. He reaches into the shower, turns the knob to the hottest setting he can stand. He hears Jake get up from the bed, pad down the hallway towards the kitchen. It only takes a moment for the bath to fill with steam, fogging the mirror and the tiles; Blaise steps in.

As the steady spray of water hits his head, Blaise lets himself relax, just for a moment. His back is still twinging and his legs are oddly sore, but he feels fucking fantastic. If all he did was fuck Jake Durant all day, he'd be fine. Then the tension of their constant arguments wouldn't give him what he fears are permanent scowl lines next to his mouth.

They've been at each other like hammer and tongs most days this week, and Blaise knows most of it's his fault. Not that Jake responds well to the pointed little barbs Blaise can't seem to stop himself from flinging Jake's way. Jake's said some things that have stung, that have wormed their way beneath Blaise's skin. _Spoiled little rich boy_ being one of them. Blaise rubs his face beneath the water. He's been guarding his tongue some now, trying pull his verbal punches just a little, keep from worrying a sore point. He's concerned he'll say the wrong thing, do the wrong thing, and they'll be back to shouting at each other or storming about in a huff for hours. 

Or maybe Jake just won't be here one day when Blaise comes back from work. To be honest, Blaise half-expects that anyway. He's never been able to have a real relationship. Never wanted to. And now this, between the two of them… Merlin but it terrifies him. 

Blaise knows the fights and the physical attraction are related somehow, but the intensity of his emotional flares are unfamiliar. Jake gets under his skin, leaves him no quarter, and Blaise doesn't know what to do. He's never let anyone in to his life like this, not a lover, not a friend. Not even Pansy and Draco, and for fuck's sake never his mother. He's kept himself slightly apart from them all, as best he can, all of his life. Because some fucked up part of his brain thinks they'll grow tired of him. They'll leave. 

The way everyone else in his life has, at one time or another. 

Slowly, Blaise soaps his belly. He thinks it'd be nice to stop fighting with Jake, just for a week or two. To have it go back to the way it'd been before they'd come back from Thibodaux. That simplicity of just shagging. Of not feeling things Blaise isn't comfortable feeling. He wants to control his emotions, wants to coast on the surface for a bit. It's not Jake he's tired of. Blaise knows this. He's tired of himself and his own possessiveness, his foul temper and inability not to draw blood in a fight, even one of words, if not wands or fists. He's perpetually concerned with what's coming next, with how careful he has to be to keep Jake from knowing how he feels, what the bloody Veela inside of him seems to think them to be, and, really, he's clearly on the brink ruining everything. Even if it's what he thinks he wants, Blaise is certain he needs to pull himself back right now.

Fuck it. He'll just enjoy what they have right now, enjoy getting off and not fretting about the future. Pansy had told him yesterday over drinks after work that he was overthinking all of this. _As usual_ , she'd said with a curl of her lip and a pointed look. Then again, Blaise thinks, she might not be the best model. When he'd asked about Althea, about how they were doing sharing a flat--which he'd told Pans from the moment she'd suggested it was a bloody stupid idea--she'd brushed him off with a look that warned him not to press the point. It'd been one of those times Blaise had wished Draco were here. Pansy would have listened to him, at least. Or Blaise thinks she might have done once. He's not so certain when it comes to Althea Whitaker any longer. Blaise knows that they all care about their teammate, that they're all worried about her, but he's pretty certain that the feelings running between those two are deeper than concern alone. He's just not sure they've realised. 

And he does wonder whether Pans knows what she's getting into. She's never slept with a woman, not even in a threesome. Blaise worries that she's in over her head, or perhaps making promises she can't keep. Being intrigued by someone doesn't equate to being able to shag them senseless when push comes to shove, and Pansy's never shown interest in diving into a fanny. Blaise half-worries that she's confusing a friendship with sexual attraction--or that she isn't, and Althea's doomed to being one of Pansy's fleeting flirtations. The only one who's really lasted has been Tony Goldstein, and Blaise has always thought that particular indulgence of Pansy's was a rubbish idea. Nothing against Goldstein personally, but Blaise doesn't care for the way Pansy gets all caught up in the bastard. Not to mention the whole being married thing. Or separated now, Blaise supposes. Still, it's not on in Blaise's book, and he's worried for years that Goldstein's toying with Pansy, whether or not he realises it. 

Really, the whole thing's going to blow up in Pansy's face. Not that she'd listen to him. She certainly hadn't cared to last night, telling him to pay attention to what's going on in his own house, not hers. She has a point, as much as Blaise hates to admit it. And, honestly, it's not as if Blaise is the poster child for institutional heterosexuality, so he doesn't know why he's fretting about a potential bisexual awakening for one of his best friends. Still, at least he's shagged enough on both sides to know he was flexible. He worries about Pansy. He really does.

Blaise turns the shower off and reaches for a towel. Through the half-open door, he can smell a perfect burnt caramel of good espresso. Jake's making coffee in the kitchen, and it smells freshly roasted. A smile tugs at the corners of Blaise's mouth. Evidently he's not the only one trying to make peace.

Jake hands Blaise a doppio when he walks into the kitchen a quarter-hour or so later, mostly dressed but needing a final pressing spell on his shirt. Blaise knows it's ridiculously late, so he avoids looking at the kitchen clock. They lean against the counter for a moment, side by side, Jake bare-chested, his pyjama pants hanging low on his hips. He still needs a shower; he smells a bit manky, not that Blaise'll say that aloud. Instead he turns his head, studies the purplish love bites that mar the thick length of Jake's throat. 

Blaise swallows a silky, warm mouthful of coffee, savouring the hints of peaches and perhaps a bit of brown sugar. "This is good." 

"I stopped by Origin on my way home last night." Jake smiles at him over a milky mug--he drinks his coffee black the rest of the day, but his first cups in the morning are usually cafe au lait. It's odd, Blaise thinks, how something as simple as sharing a coffee first thing in the morning can feel so intimate. "Thought we were getting low on beans again."

"You'll have to show me where they are." Blaise drains the rest of the admittedly excellent cup. He doesn't comment on Jake getting more coffee; he's still half-embarrassed about the fight they'd had over it earlier in the week. Still, he feels warm and soft at the thought that Jake cared enough to get more. They're trying, both of them, even if this is difficult sometimes between them. He leans in to kiss Jake, quick and fast. "I need to run. See you tonight for dinner?"

There's a soft silence as Jake looks away, his mug cupped in his hands. Blaise feels a prickle of tension slide across the nape of his neck. He pulls back, eyes Jake. "What aren't you telling me?"

"I'm not going to be home tonight." Jake's voice is low, careful. He catches his bottom lip between his teeth. "Tom and I have a meeting." He hesitates, then says, "I'll make it up to you."

The feathers ruffle deep inside Blaise's chest, and he wills himself to set his cup down on the counter. "Oh?" He doesn't quite meet Jake's gaze; he's afraid of what he might see there. "You and Tom Graves, then?"

"Don't be like that." Jake lifts his mug to his mouth; Blaise tries to keep his temper. "We're just going to Luxembourg to meet with Antonia Bucceri, and we'll stay overnight." He looks over at Blaise. "I told you about this."

Blaise thinks he remembers something being said in passing about Bucceri. Probably just before they argued, if he's honest. He walks over to the sink, turns the water on, trying to calm himself. "She's the wizards rights liaison?" His shoulders are tight; he presses his fingers against the porcelain lip of the sink. They scrape across it; Blaise can feel the faint dents in the surface. He pulls his hands away, throat tight, and reaches for his espresso cup.

"Yeah." Jake's behind him; he sounds relieved. "I'll text you the hotel info. We're coming back tomorrow morning on the Eurostar."

"I see." Blaise rinses out his cup, setting it carefully aside. This he doesn't remember. He turns around, looks over at Jake. "Muggle transport, then."

Jake glances to his satchel, sat on the kitchen table, along with a few file jackets. Blaise would wager the tickets are tucked away in one of the pockets. "You know how it is."

"Damnably slow as I recall," Blaise keeps his tone light. He's sensing danger to his mate and on top of everything, especially with how close he feels to Jake right now, his nerves are thrumming. He moves away, dries his hands on the tea towel hanging on a hook beside the hob. "You know I don't like this," he says after a moment. "Merlin only knows what Tom Graves is going to get you into--"

"It'll be okay." Jake crosses few steps between them, bending to touch his lips to Blaise's neck even as Blaise turns his head aside. He nudges Blaise's jaw with his nose and the touch makes Blaise settle. "I promise."

"Do you mean that?" Blaise lets himself lean into Jake for a moment, lets Jake cover him with the warmth of his body. 

"I do." Jake's voice is soft in Blaise's ear, and Blaise can hear the faint tremor of uncertainty in the words. He grips Jake's arms tightly, holding him still. "You know I don't have a choice in this," Jake whispers.

Blaise knows Jake thinks he has to do this, has to go up against his own government. In Blaise's opinion, it's madness. And idiotic to boot. MACUSA will destroy Jake; they've already tried, and Blaise doesn't know how he can protect Jake from his own bloody-minded stupidity. 

"You can't stop me from worrying," he says after a moment. He leans his forehead against Jake's temple. "How are you going to take the Eurostar without a Muggle passport?"

Jake laughs. "Trust you to think about that." He pulls back, touches Blaise's face. "Tom knows a guy. We'll have British passports in hand; no one's going to connect me to MACUSA."

So Jake thinks. Blaise presses his lips together, trying to quiet the fear roiling in his belly. "Then you ought to work a bit on your accent." 

That makes Jake snort. "I reckon I can, mate," he says in a perfectly Surrey accent, and Blaise raises an eyebrow in surprise. It's not half-bad, really. Jake grins at him. "Harry taught me a little."

"Not awful," Blaise says, and he tries to keep back the sudden, unexpected flare of jealousy. He knows he has to trust Jake. With Potter. With this. Knows Jake's been a Hit Wizard, an Auror, an Unspeakable. He's trained for this sort of work. He can do it, just like Blaise could if he were in Jake's shoes. "You'd better ring me." He looks at Jake. "Multiple times, do I make myself clear? And if there's anything shady--"

"I'll be careful." Jake's bright blue eyes are fond. His mouth quirks up on one side. "I'm a big boy, Blaise."

"You're an idiot is what you are." Blaise takes a breath, then another. "But you're my idiot, and I'd rather you stay in one piece." He looks at Jake, pulls away. "For the moment at least." Jake's watching him, and there's something warm in his gaze that makes Blaise's heart flutter. He glances away. "I have to go to work," Blaise says, a bit thickly. Potter's going to have his bollocks on a goddamned silver tray if he's not in soon. To be honest, Blaise is half-surprised he hasn't had a call on his mobile yet, demanding to know where the fuck he is. 

"All right," Jake says, and he follows Blaise out into the sitting room. 

Blaise picks up his satchel from beside the sofa. He'd dropped it there last night when he'd stumbled through the Floo, half-pissed from drinking with Pans and more than a little annoyed with life in general. All it had taken was Jake saying something about him being drunk, and Blaise had lost his temper. He flinches a bit at the memory. Merlin, but he's been a prick lately. 

"You'll be all right tonight?" Jake asks, and Blaise just shrugs. 

He settles his satchel over his shoulder. "I'll amuse myself, don't worry." Blaise doesn't bother to point out he'll be hovering over his mobile half the night. "I might go to Millie's." He won't, but Jake doesn't need to know that.

Jake relaxes. "That's a good idea."

Blaise reaches into the tin of Floo powder on the chimneypiece, tossing it into the flames. They spark green. He doesn't know what to say; he hates these awkward moments between the two of them when he's worried about causing a row. But there's part of him that wants to lash out, wants to tell Jake what a fool he's being, wants to hide all of this fear and uncertainty that's starting to well up in him. He breathes out instead and says, as mildly as he can, "I'll see you tomorrow. What time does your train get in?"

"Two forty-five," Jake says, and Blaise just nods. 

"I'll be at King's Cross then," Blaise says, and he steps into the hearth, letting it expand around him. "Ministry of--"

Jake reaches for him, pulls him forward, kisses him quick and fierce and hard. "I fucking love you," he whispers against Blaise's lips, and Blaise's eyes widen.

"Magic," Blaise finishes, and then he's swirling away, Jake's solemn face fading into the darkness of the Floo. 

He lands with a soft thump, standing still until he feels a shove behind him from someone else coming through. 

Blaise stumbles out into the brightness of the Ministry Atrium. He's unsteady on his feet, his mind whirling. He staggers over to the wall, leans against it, the tile cool and smooth through the cotton of his dress shirt. 

He's forgotten his pressing charm. He doesn't care. 

Jake Durant loves him. At least that's what Blaise thinks he said, but now he's not certain. He presses his fingertips to his mouth, still warm and tingling from Jake's kiss. 

He closes his eyes. But what if it's true? What if it's what he'd said. What if Jake Durant really does love him? 

Blaise draws in a ragged breath, shocked by the rush of joy that spreads through him, a rustle of wings and feathers that threatens to lift him off the floor, that wants to send him soaring through the air. 

Love, he thinks. This is love. 

He opens his eyes, and the world comes crashing down around him. He loves Jake Durant, and Jake Durant loves him. At least he thinks he does.

Oh, Merlin. They're both fucked.

***

Pansy's sat at the incident room table, running a bright pink nail idly along the plastic rim of her takeaway cup. Another coffee for the guv stands beside it, and she probably should renew the warming charm. She glances over at the clock hung on the wall. Althea'd had an appointment with the physio at St Mungo's at quarter-to-eight this morning, and Pansy'd gone over with her before going in to the Ministry. Althea'd groused about being able to do it herself, ta ever so, but Pansy suspects in the end she'd been not unhappy to have company. Even if she hates Pansy seeing her this weakened and unsteady.

That's ridiculous in Pansy's opinion, but Mitchell's told her his daughter's always been that stubborn. And Pansy knows it's true. Most of Althea's bluster and bitchiness over the years has been more about her and her fear of others judging her, seeing her as different, as wounded in some way. It's been better for her since she landed in Seven-Four-Alpha, though. She's learned to stop caring so much, Pansy thinks. 

She turns her cup between her hands, frowning down at it. The quiet of the incident room is off-putting, and Pansy wonders where Blaise and the guv are. They ought to have been here by now, but it's Friday, and Pansy half-wonders if they're just going to skive off for the weekend. She wouldn't blame them. She'd rather be back at her flat, making certain Althea's not up to something idiotic, like trying to fry bread the way she'd done yesterday. It might have been fine if she hadn't set the pan on fire whilst high on pain potions. Pansy'd discreetly made certain her mother would stop by at some point today, make certain Althea hadn't burnt Pansy out of hearth and home. 

To be honest, Pansy doesn't entirely know why she comes in to work any longer. Well, other than her need to justify her pay packet every two weeks, but she knows if she wanted to quit her job, her parents would pay her bills. Not that Pansy'd let that happen. The idea of being a social butterfly like her mother, of not working, of not immersing herself in her magical theory and practical applications sends a shudder of horror through her. As much as the idea of Pansy leaving the Aurors would thrill Camilla--and most likely Terry as well, given her father's shady dealings--Pansy's no intention of giving them that satisfaction. Still, she's bored senseless lately. It's not as if she can do much bloody good with all of the red tape and unofficial evidence blocks set up around Seven-Four-Alpha. Whilst they're purportedly still on the Lestrange case, being hobbled like this means that other Auror teams have taken over most of their field work. None of them had minded that much at first; they'd all been too shell-shocked by the events of Louisiana, too beaten-down by losing Draco, by not being able to find him. But it's been a month now, and Pansy needs to _do_ something. They all do, especially the guv, but between the Ministry tiptoeing around Luxembourg and the possibility of MACUSA demanding some sort of recompense for an illegal mission conducted by British agents on their soil, Pansy's fairly certain they'll be grounded for the foreseeable future. And really, she thinks grimly, she wouldn't put it past the Ministry to be trying to force the lot of them to quit on their own, thus tidying up a potentially volatile situation quite nicely. For them, at least. The bastards. 

Now even Jonesey acts shifty these days when Pansy goes down to her old lab bench, and it's driving her bloody mad. Everything Seven-Four-Alpha touches seems to hit a bureaucratic roadblock or cause a bit of hushed conversation among the higher-ups. Pansy's tired of pretending to do something, tired of hoping against hope that they'll find something useful in one of the few areas they're allowed to look. Honestly, she's starting to think they all should have gone on the run after Thibodaux. At least they'd be bloody moving.

Blaise had just grimaced at her last night when she'd said that after her third drink, but he hadn't disagreed. 

Pansy takes a sip of her coffee, her mind drifting back to those sweltering, maddening days, and then she winces as she remembers watching Althea fall backwards in that foul Louisiana crypt, the horror of her injury and its aftermath. Her stomach twists. Pansy can usually suppress that memory, but it sneaks up on her when she's not paying attention, in her dreams and at moments like this when she's less guarded in her thoughts, much like her deep existential dread for Draco's safety does. 

But Althea wouldn't have survived if they'd run away. Not with her injuries the way they'd been. And that had been part of it, hadn't it? They came back because they had to, each and every one of them. Pans still could run, of course, could break the travel ban keeping her tethered to Britain, but she'd never leave Althea behind, she knows that. Not even to preserve her own safety--or sanity--and Pansy wonders what that means.

The one piece of good news from the latest week of dead ends and dormant leads lies on the desk in front of her. Pansy unrolls the spelled missive, a copy of a tech report from an associate of Padma Patil's in the Department of Magical Curse Breaking and Hex Enchantments. One that Pansy shouldn't have, but Padma had smuggled it out for her, sending Pansy a note letting her know something had come through that Pansy might be interested in seeing. Pansy had stopped by Curse Breaking yesterday afternoon after the purple interdepartmental memo had arrived on her lab bench, curious as to what Padma had discovered. She'd even managed to hold an awkward conversation with Padma about Althea in a not too terribly antagonistic fashion before Pansy had ducked out gratefully, the scroll tucked in her bag. 

She'd known the moment she unrolled it late last night, hidden away in her bedroom, her hair piled on top of her head and a rose clay mask smeared across her face, that the guv needed to see it.

The doorknob rattles, the door creaking open behind it, and Pansy shoots a hasty warming charm at the second cup on her desk. It might scald the guv's mouth, but she rather he not get tepid coffee.

"Morning, Parkinson. Are you the only one in?" Potter looks well-groomed today, and Pansy remembers he's to speak this afternoon before the Wizengamot. His dark curls are styled and somewhat tamed, his shirt is snowy white, and his charcoal suit looks like Kreacher went over it personally. He smoothes his grey silk tie down as he sets his satchel on a desk. Pansy recognises it; she'd bought it for Draco two birthdays ago precisely because it matched his eyes. There's something oddly touching about the fact that Potter's wearing it today, almost as if it's a talisman. And maybe it is, in its own way.

"Morning, guv." Pansy straightens her posture reflexively and uncrosses her legs, sitting up straight in her chair. Potter has a look of authority about him today. "I brought coffee," she adds as he slides his jacket off, drapes it over his satchel. He's wearing braces today, a deeper grey that goes well with his tie. Pansy approves.

"Cheers." Potter takes the cup from Pansy, then swears. "Bugger, that's hot." He holds it out away from him; drops of coffee spatter across the desk.

Sod it all. She'd known she'd overdone that warming charm. "Perhaps they made a fresh pot?"

The guv gives her a sceptical look. "You warmed it up, didn't you?" Pansy tries to look innocent, but Potter just shakes his head. "You're a menace, Parkinson." His face softens when he looks over at her. "But thank you."

Pansy studies him. "You look tired." Not that he doesn't always these days. But there's something pinched and drawn about his face that she doesn't like. "Did you sleep?"

"Mostly." Potter leans against the table next to Pansy, blowing on his cup. Draco's desk, she thinks. She wonders if Potter picked it consciously, but she thinks not. "Except when I didn't."

And that's not an answer, is it? Pansy wants to push a bit more, but she doesn't think the guv will let her. Instead she just settles for giving him a disapproving frown, which Potter looks away from. 

"Have you any idea where Zabini is?" Potter's tense half-smile belies the gravity of his tone. His gaze slides towards the clock. "I'd have thought he'd be here by now." 

Pansy shrugs, leans back in her chair. She crosses her legs again and takes a sip of coffee. "We were out after work last night, but we stopped early." She pauses, considering. "Early enough, anyhow." Blaise hadn't wanted to go home, but she'd forced him. Partly because he might as well get over himself about whatever's going on with Durant, and partly because she'd started to get worried about leaving Althea alone for so long. Not that she needed to have worried. Althea'd been fast asleep on the sofa when Pansy had Flooed back home. 

Potter just eyes her. "You look perfectly glowing today, so Zabini's tardiness must be due to something else."

"Or someone else," Pansy says saucily before she can stop herself. Pansy wonders what's happening with Blaise, how things had gone when he'd finally made it home, whether he and Durant are fucking or fighting. Or both.

She and Potter exchange a glance, then Potter huffs a rough laugh. He shakes his head. "Well, they'll have to stop eventually."

Pansy snorts, then relaxes back into her chair, thanking Circe that they can joke about this now. Not that it's not awkward that Blaise's shagging the guv's ex, but it's become part of their shared humour instead of a stumbling block to honest conversation.

They sip at their cups for a moment in silence. It's already past half-nine, and yet, there's bloody little for them to do but wait for Blaise and enjoy their coffee.

"I do have good news." Pansy shoves the parchment to the edge of the desk. "Padma Patil gave me this yesterday."

She watches Potter set down his coffee and lift the tightly wound scroll, unrolling it to scan for a moment. His lips move unconsciously as he reads. He looks up after his eyes have travelled halfway down the page. "Is this what I think it is?"

Pansy nods. "They've been studying the boltholes--you know, the ones Lestrange was hiding out in."

The guv reads another sentence, chewing on his bottom lip as he does. "So they've found a common spatial abnormality--what the hell does that mean?" His gaze flicks up towards Pansy.

"It means that the bloody lot of those boltholes are probably interconnected, like a rabbit's warren." Pansy's heartbeat races, the excitement gripping her nerves. This is their first lead in weeks, and she's thrilled for the chase despite herself. "Padma's fellow thinks that if we find one of them that's still attached to the network, we can find them all."

"Like a Floo connection," Potter says slowly, and Pansy nods. 

"A bit simplistic," she says, "but that's the gist of it." 

Potter sits on the edge of Draco's old desk. "So, if Lestrange is in there, we've got him." He's frowning at the parchment. "Merlin help us all."

"We'd better be sure we're ready for him, but yeah. That's the idea." Pansy folds her arms over her chest. "If he's still using them, if we can get into one of the connections, then theoretically we should be able to track him down."

"Theoretically," Potter echoes. They both know that Lestrange won't be an easy collar, but at least they might have a chance at locating him now. Small steps, Pansy thinks. It's all they can manage right now.

Potter drops the parchment back on her desk. "Who else knows?"

"No one, for now." Pansy picks at the lid of her coffee with one polished nail. "Padma said she'd put it on the bottom of the pile. That should get us at least a week, if we're lucky." She takes a sip, frowning at the lukewarm mouthful but desperate for the caffeine. 

Despite Potter's flattering perception of her ability to hold her alcohol, Pansy's feeling the several rounds of drinks last night. She and Blaise had gone to the cocktail bar offshoot of Blaise's club in Soho and downed far more blackberry and lemon brambles than they should have in a last, desperate attempt to pretend it's still summer. The bartender had poured with a heavy hand, and the crème de mûre was house-distilled and the scrummiest Pansy's had in ages. Each lemon yellow glass had been shot through with bloody red, oddly echoing the general macabre nature of their conversation. Still, Pansy supposes the lemon'd saved her; she hadn't woken up properly hungover, just a bit cotton-mouthed and quiet.

"We should make the best of this head start." Potter sets the parchment down and reaches over. She hands him her her cup, now properly empty. He walks to the corner to bin it with his own, then glances back over at her. "You want to take lead on it?"

Pansy's a bit surprised, but pleased. "Sure," she says, and she picks up the parchment again, scanning it for anything she's missed, anything that might lead them to their next step. "Perhaps if we can find one here in Britain we can avoid the travel ban. And Saul Croaker's team." 

The guv snorts. "Yeah, well, that might be harder than you think. Croaker's being a complete tosser right now." He shakes his head, walks back over. He hesitates next to the desk, the strap of his satchel twisted between his fingers. "How's Whitaker?"

"Fine." Pansy doesn't look up from the parchment, but she can feel her cheeks warm a bit. "She went to St Mungo's this morning to see the physio." 

"And how're you?" Potter's voice is scratchy, quiet.

Pansy looks up and meets his eyes, pauses at the oddly kind look she finds there. "I'm all right, I suppose." She frowns at him, uncertain as to why he's even asking. 

"I know that look." Potter's smile is wan and faint. "Draco gives it to me when I'm not supposed to ask. But I'm going to anyway because I'm your guv." He's studying her, and Pansy looks away. "I know this past month's been hard for you too."

Potter's careful, testing the waters Pansy thinks. 

"I really am fine," she says. She sets Padma's parchment back down, considers. "I'm worried. And tired." She rubs the bridge of her nose. Her head aches a bit. Probably from last night's indulgences. She sighs, then says, "I miss Draco."

The guv doesn't say anything for a moment. He looks away, his jaw working, then he says, "Me too."

Pansy reaches over, catches his hand. She thinks he's going to pull away, but he doesn't. Instead, he pauses, then curls his fingers around hers. He squeezes them lightly before he sighs, drops her hand. "It's still hard to sleep without him."

"I'm sorry." Pansy means it. She's been worried about Potter. They all have. 

They're both quiet, then Potter runs his hands through his hair, leaving it messy, standing on end. "Everything will be all right," he says, almost as if it's something he's told himself over and over. Pansy wonders if he'll actually ever believe it.

She studies him, takes in the dark circles he's tried to hide. Terribly. "How're you feeling about testifying this afternoon?" she asks, her voice soft.

The guv starts slightly, recovers. "Well enough, I suppose." His mouth quirks to one side. "If we're deflecting."

Pansy nods, says nothing.

Potter sighs, pushes himself off the desk. He settles his satchel over his shoulder, drapes his jacket over his arm. "Let's chase this lead down, yeah? See where the rabbit hole leads." He hesitates, then says, "Tell Whitaker we miss her." His gaze seeks out Pansy's. "But I reckon she has good care right now, what with you looking after her."

"I try," Pansy says, her voice as light as she can make it, and when Potter looks as if he's about to push a bit more, she adds, "I'll start working on these boltholes for you, guv."

"Right," Potter says, if somewhat awkwardly, and he clears his throat. "Let me know what you find." As he retreats into his office, Pansy feels a bit guilty, but not overly. She has no desire to open up that can of worms. They all have their things they can't discuss, and hers happens to be living with her at the moment.

Not that it's anyone else's business how she feels.

She only wishes she knew herself.

***

"You did good yesterday, Blondie." Jasper Durant's voice echoes against the white tile of the empty loo.

Draco looks up from the urinal. It's early on Friday morning, and his stomach grumbles, wanting breakfast. Jasper's beside him, pulling his prick from his trousers. Draco can't help but glance down, ever so quickly, then he looks away, appalled with himself and surprised at the heft of Jasper's cock. He can feel his cheeks warm, and he shakes the last bits of piss from the tip of his own prick. Really, he shouldn't be surprised. As much as Draco'd rather not admit it--or think about it at all, if he's honest--Harry's given him the distinct impression from things he's said offhand that Durant himself was hung like a bloody horse. Those genes have to come from somewhere, after all.

"Sorry I didn't have better intel for you." Draco tugs up his trousers, tightens the drawstring around his waist. He tries not to listen to the sound of Jasper's piss hitting the porcelain of the urinal. Merlin, the man must have the bladder of a Hippogriff. 

Jasper snorts. "Nothing I didn't already suspect." He watches as Draco walks over to the sink, turns the water on. Draco wets his hands, soaps them up. He feels uncomfortable here with Jasper, and he wonders if Jasper followed him here deliberately. Probably, he thinks, glancing over at the doorway. He's fairly certain he sees Jonks loitering outside, stopping others from coming in. His gaze goes back to the long mirror above the line of grimy sinks. Jasper's back is to Draco again; the dim overhead lights glint in the silver of his thick hair. 

The loo smells rank; whoever's been on cleaning duty in here this week has done an awful job with it all. Even the showers have been filthy; Draco'd found a clump of hair in the open stall this morning that had made him want to gag. It's one of the times he's agreed with Pansy: men are disgusting creatures.

Draco rinses his hands, dries them. He's tired; he doesn't feel like spending yet another morning on his feet in the laundry. He half-wishes he could be back on cleaning duty with Tatlock, but that's dangerous in his own way. He'd rather not draw the attention of the guards too much. They despise him as it is for his seeming fall from grace. Draco wonders what they'd think if they knew most of the charges against him were trumped up by Wilkinson, but honestly, he suspects they wouldn't care. In their eyes, he's still law enforcement in an orange uniform with a prison number assigned to him. Draco looks at his reflection, takes in the dark circles beneath his eyes, the sallow gauntness of his face, half-hidden by his beard. His hair hangs loose and limp, tucked behind his ears. To be honest, he looks like a malnourished gay pirate, and at that thought his mouth quirks up to one side, wry and bitter. He grips the edge of the sink, his fingernails digging into the too-soft wood beneath the formica.

"I have to get out of here," Draco murmurs, and he sees Jasper reflected, turning away from the urinal. 

"Not gonna happen, kid." Jasper walks over, washes his hands. He meets Draco's gaze in the mirror. There's a kindness to his eyes that Draco doesn't expect. "If they want to keep you here, it'll take a goddamn water-into-wine kind of miracle to pry you out of this shithole." He looks grim, worn out, twenty years of Oudepoort weighing down his shoulders. 

"How've you made it this long?" Draco asks. He feels battered and exhausted after only two weeks. If that. Whilst his years of Auror training have made him sceptical about Jasper's sense of morality, the fledgling Unspeakable in him respects the hell out of Jasper for surviving, for making something of himself here inside these prison walls. 

Jasper shrugs. "One day at a time," he says after a moment. "I've got friends in here, and my boy Eddie comes by to see me often enough." A wistful look crosses his face. "That's good enough, I'd say."

But it's not. Draco can tell that much, even with his Legilimency suppressed once again. It's Jasper's other son that he wants to see more of, and Draco wonders if Durant has any idea. He studies Jasper for a moment. "You're proud of him, aren't you?" 

"Eddie?" Jasper frowns. "He's a good kid--"

"Jake," Draco says, and Jasper looks away. Falls silent. 

They stand there in the quiet of the loo, and then Jasper huffs a soft, low laugh. "Yeah," he says finally. He looks at Draco, and there's a softness on his face that Draco wishes he'd seen in his own father's expression. That grief flares up again, the realisation that Lucius will never look at him again, never know the man Draco's becoming, never praise Draco for rising up above the confines of his family name. 

Not that Lucius Malfoy would ever have seen Draco's actions as anything other than a betrayal of everything he stood for, of everything the Malfoy family had accomplished. The world had left his father behind these past few years, and even if he was still with them, Draco isn't certain Lucius would ever have caught up. He was too stubborn. Too certain he was right.

And Draco still misses his father desperately. 

Jasper rubs his jaw. "I'm damn proud of Jakey," he says after a moment. "Not that he'll let me say that." His smile is regretful. "But that boy broke away from all my family's bullshit, and that's his mama coming out in him. His Aunt Eula as well. Those women raised him right, better than I ever could, and look at him now." Jasper turns, leans against the edge of the sink, his arms folded over his chest. "We might be on opposite sides of the law, but he's my boy, and he always will be." His smile fades. "Even if I'm a goddamn embarrassment to him."

Draco doesn't know what to say. He looks away, studying a spiderweb of cracks across the tile. Probably from where someone's head had been knocked against the wall, judging by the way they circle outwards. Pansy would be able to tell him, he thinks, and he wishes he could be in her lab right now, listening to her ramble on about some new magiforensics technique she's developing. His throat tightens, aches. He misses home. Misses London. 

Misses Harry. 

Jasper's watching him, and Draco knows he's revealing a bit too much of his misery. He tries to straighten his shoulders, tries to settle into that stiff upper lip his country's always lauded for. Except he doesn't have it in him. Not entirely. 

"I owe you," Jasper says, and he fumbles in his trouser pocket, pulls out a small square of plastic. He holds it out; Draco takes it almost without thought, his fingers curling around the tiny SIM card. "That'll do you one phone call." Jasper's hand settles on Draco's shoulder, heavy and solid, before sliding away. "Better make it a good one."

Draco stares down at the card in his palm. His breath catches; his heart speeds up. "Thanks," he manages to say, because he knows he has to stay in Jasper's good graces if he wants any more of these. He turns the card between his fingers, watching the light glint off the metal bits.

"Bring the phone with you today," Jasper says. "Hide it down your drawers or whatever you need to do to keep the guards from seeing it. When you go out to the yard for exercise this morning, Bobby'll help you find a spot you can use it." When Draco starts to protest, Jasper's mouth quirks up on one side. "We got hidden places out there, trust me, Blondie. Won't be a long chat you can have, but I'd say you'll still be able to reach London Bridge or wherever the hell you'll be calling." He meets Draco's gaze. "Jonks made sure it could call internationally."

All Draco can do is nod. He slips the SIM card in his pocket.

"Boss," Jonks says from the doorway, his voice a low rumble, and both Jasper and Draco look his way. "Got some boys who need to shit out here."

"They can goddamn wait," Jasper says, sounding a bit testy. He glances back at Draco. "I'll have more for you to do, Blondie. Maybe next time I'll give you a SIM card that lasts a little longer." His hand claps Draco's back, nearly pushing him into the sinks. "Enjoy this one."

And he's gone, with Jonks behind him. Jonks throws one last long look Draco's way, almost as if warning him he'd best watch his step. And Draco will. The SIM cards guarantee that. 

Draco walks out as the other men swarm in, heading for the urinals and stalls, throwing uneasy glances Draco's way. 

He's brought up short by the sight of a burly man leaning against the wall outside of the loo. Paulie. He's never forgiven Draco for what he perceives as Draco's humiliation of him that first breakfast. No matter that it was Jasper who sent Paulie packing. 

Paulie's watching him through narrowed eyes. He pushes himself off the wall, brushes past Draco, bumping his shoulder roughly. "Best be glad Jasper's got you under his protection, pretty boy," Paulie murmurs, and the look he shoots Draco is pure venom. "'Bout the only thing keeping that heart of yours beating right now."

Draco's temper flares. "I'd like to see you try--" He breaks off in a flash of pain as Paulie's fist slams into his belly, hard and fast, sending him staggering back. Another punch and Draco's on the floor before he can catch himself, and Paulie's booted foot is swinging towards his face. 

The crunch of the boot against Draco's nose is loud in the hallway. Blood sprays out; Draco curls into himself, pain shuddering through him. 

None of the guards down the corridor seem to give a damn. 

And then Paulie's bending over him, his breath foul and hot against Draco's throbbing face. "Watch yourself, boy," he says, and there's a cruel satisfaction in his tone. "Ain't a single one of those fuckers down the hall who's gonna care what the fuck I do to you. Understand?"

Draco looks up at him balefully. He spits to the side, blood and saliva spattering across the floor beside him. His hand goes to his pocket. The SIM card's still there, thank fuck.

Paulie just laughs and walks away. 

Slowly, Draco pushes himself up. No one's looking at him. Heads are turned, eyes averted. The message comes through loud and clear. No one's going to help him. No one but Jasper fucking Durant, at least. 

Draco draws his sleeve across his face. Blood stains the orange cotton, and he grimaces with pain. He starts to limp towards the loo again, desperate for a sink, but another prisoner steps in front of him, arms crossed, head shaking. 

"Not in here," he says, and Draco stills, his breath a sharp, painful huff. The man meets his gaze evenly, steadily. 

Blood drips from Draco's nostril, catching in his patchy mustache, rolling across his lip, warm and sticky. Draco wipes at it. He winces, tries to hide it. The man's gaze flicks away, almost as if he's embarrassed by Draco's weakness. 

Fuck him. Fuck them all, Draco thinks, and he turns and walks away.

***

The Auror stationed outside the Wizengamot wing frowns down at the thin tickertape readout in his hands.

"Something wrong, Constable Kwan?" Harry asks as he picks his wand and warrant card back up again, tucking the wand in the holster at his side and the warrant card back into his trousers pocket. Most wizards and witches have to relinquish their wands before going into chambers, but magical law enforcement are exempt from that requirement, thank Merlin. Harry always feels a bit out of place and jittery without his wand at hand. 

Kwan shakes his head, but his brows are still drawn together. "Soz, Inspector. It's just…" He chews on his lip, then hands the tickertape over. "The bloody charm must be acting up again."

Harry's eyebrow goes up. "You're registering traces of Dark magic off _my_ wand?"

"Mad, yeah?" Kwan laughs a bit nervously. "I mean, what with you being you and all." He takes the tickertape from Harry. "Nah, it has to be the charm. Liam said it was being all wonky the other day, so I reckon we'll just have to have the nerd boys upstairs come take a look at it." He gives the scales on the check-in desk a bitter look. "They'll probably try to pin it on us and not their shitty charmwork."

"Without a doubt," Harry says, forcing out a small smile. He leaves Kwan muttering about faulty equipment and what the fuck was he supposed to do about that, couldn't even do his bloody job if this shit was going to ping Harry Potter of all people. Harry rubs his forearm as he strides down the hall. Part of him wants to believe Kwan, to think that it's just the charm that's off, but he knows it's him. Whatever magic's twisting with his, making him see things he doesn't understand--

Except in a way, he does.

Harry's mind shies away from that. He doesn't want to think about last night. Doesn't want to remember what it'd felt like to have the cloak over him, to see what he'd seen, to feel that throb of power going through him, deep and seductive. If he doesn't dwell on it, he can almost believe it'd been a dream. Unsettling. Uneasy. But not real. 

But Harry knows the truth. This bond that he's been called into, this role of protector, of dedicant, in a weird way, is taking root. Calling out to him. Harry tries to ignore it as best he can, but there's a twisting certainty in his gut that he has to find the cup. Find Lestrange. Stop him before he can do something utterly stupid. 

Whatever that might be, it hasn't happened yet. Harry doesn't know how he knows Lestrange hasn't used the cup, but he does, and it's confusing and convoluted and makes Harry incredibly apprehensive about all of this. 

Harry takes the steps down towards Courtroom Ten. He still has twenty minutes or so before he'll be called in to speak, but he'd been too tense to wait upstairs in the incident room. He's sorted through his notes at least a dozen times, if not more, trying bits out on Parkinson and Zabini over the course of the afternoon. They'd pointed out where Harry could shore up his argument more, and Zabini, who'd been quiet and subdued when he'd come in ten minutes after Harry, had played devil's advocate for him, arguing Marchbanks' position rather deftly. Harry thinks Zabini could have been a bloody good barrister if he hadn't become a copper. He's definitely the mind for it. 

The corridor's cool, quiet. Harry signs in with the witch at the narrow desk in front of the heavy, carved wooden doors, so dark and forbidding against the pale marble tiles of the floor and walls. She smiles at him, tells him to have a seat. He'll be summoned when the Wizengamot is ready for him; at the moment the Minister's speaking. Harry's not surprised; he'd known Kingsley was going to lay the groundwork for him. He sits in one of the stiff, wooden chairs halfway down the hall. Breathes out. 

Really, Harry hates these sorts of things. The whole Saviour of the Wizarding World bollocks, the silent figurehead being trotted out to make a political point. He's tolerated it as best he can over the years, mostly because there's nothing he can do about it. Even Kingsley's used him from time to time, albeit apologetically. Harry's more than just Harry, Kingsley's explained. He means something to people now. He's hope. The belief that evil can be stopped. 

Harry hasn't the heart to point out that it'd been nothing but blind luck that had let him defeat Voldemort. Not something spectacular in him. But no one wanted to hear that, really. Not even Ron and Hermione. Even to them, he's different. More than the boy he used to be, as much as they would never admit it. And having that sort of confidence placed on one can be trying. Harry never feels as if he measures up to what anyone expects him to be. 

Except maybe when it comes to Draco. 

Draco just makes him feel like Harry. Plain, simple Harry who can be a twat to live with, who grouses too much in the mornings, who falls asleep on the sofa sometimes in mid-conversation when Draco's carding fingers through his hair. With Draco, Harry's not the Saviour of the Wizarding World. Draco's not a former Death Eater. They're just themselves, with all the good and the bad that they can be. 

Christ, Harry misses him. 

The chair's uncomfortable, the slats hard against his back. The huge clock on the wall above the courtroom door ticks forward another notch. It's nearly ten to four. Harry'll be called in shortly. He wonders what's going on inside right now, what Kingsley's saying, how the members of the Wizengamot are taking it. Christ, Harry hopes Kingsley's not winding them up too much. A little might be good, but Harry'd rather not walk into an entirely hostile hearing. He shifts, leans forward. He smoothes his tie down, the silk soft against his fingers. He'd wanted part of Draco here with him this afternoon. It'd just felt right. Harry tells himself he's speaking out against the Registry because he has to, because no one else will if not him, but he also knows a good part of it's because of Draco. 

Marchbanks has made this personal, after all.

She'll probably go after him, Harry thinks, a bit grimly. It's something he's discussed with Hermione, and they'd both decided that speaking up was worth whatever Marchbanks threw his way. Harry can handle it. He's no intention of trying to hide his relationship with Draco any longer. The whole of sodding Britain can fuck off if they've a problem with it. Harry's tired of living his life for the public eye. Draco's his. He always will be. 

Or so Harry hopes.

He looks up at the scrape of a chair against marble. The witch at the desk stands up, slips through the doors to the courtroom. They thump closed behind her, a solid, heavy crash in the quiet of the corridor. Harry's left alone, which feels oddly like a relief. He needs these few moments of silence to collect his thoughts, to prep himself for what's coming. He twists his hands together, lets them hang between his knees, his elbows on his thighs. His braces are taut beneath his jacket, stretched across his back almost too tightly. Harry rolls his shoulders, feeling constricted by his clothing. It's nerves, he knows. So much is riding on what he'll say in that courtroom, whether or not he can convince anyone to actually listen to him. 

To be honest, Harry's not so certain he can. Still, he has to try. 

Harry's mobile rings, loud and insistent. Harry thinks about ignoring it, but there aren't that many people who have his number. If they're ringing him up now, it must be important. He digs his mobile out of his pocket and frowns down at the number flashing across the tiny grey screen. 

It's from the States. 

Suddenly, Harry's mouth is dry. His hands tremble as he flips his mobile open, lifts it to his ear. 

"Potter here," he says.

"Hello, Harry." 

That posh drawl is warm, soft. Everything that Harry remembers. Everything he's been dreaming of for weeks. Harry's eyes flutter closed; his fingers tighten around the thin clamshell of his mobile. "Is it you?" he whispers, and he's half-afraid he's dreaming, that somehow his brain is giving him something he wants. Something that's not real. 

Draco laughs in Harry's ear, the sound crackling across the cellular connection. It's scratchy down here, popping every few seconds, and Harry knows that's magical interference from the Wizengamot wards. Still he can hear Draco clearly when he says, "It's me. I promise." There's a pause, and then Draco adds, "If you need me to prove it, I can tell you about that mole on the curve of your arse. Right above your left thigh."

"Oh, everyone knows about that," Harry says lightly, and Draco laughs again. Harry swallows. "You're alive."

"I am." Draco's voice shifts. Softens. "I'm sorry. I know you must have been worried--"

"August fifteenth," Harry says, and his throat hurts terribly. He draws in an uneven breath. "Today's September fifteenth. You've been gone thirty-one days." The words are hard to get out. "I've been out of my mind--" He breaks off, exhales. "Where are you?"

Draco's silent for a moment, and then he says, "I'm in Oudepoort now. I've been here…" He hesitates. Harry hears a soft wheeze of breath across the line. "Ten days, I think."

Harry stands, the worry that's been running through him for weeks suddenly turning to anger. Not at Draco though. Never at Draco. "And before that?" His voice sounds raw, even to his ears. 

"Somewhere else." And Harry can hear the pain in Draco's voice. Along with something else. It's almost as if Draco's nose is stopped up. "I don't know where."

And he wouldn't, Harry thinks, his jaw clenching. Not if they had him in an extrajudicial prison. "Did they hurt you?"

Draco doesn't answer. Harry doesn't need him to.

"Jesus," Harry whispers, and he leans against the wall. The marble's cold; it seeps through the fabric of his jacket. Harry barely notices. "Are you all right?"

"Had to see the Healer today for a bit of an Episkey." Draco's voice is light. Too light. Harry knows when Draco's keeping things from him, trying to make things seem better than they are. "Remember when I stomped on your face in school?"

As if Harry could forget. "It was a bit shit of you, you know."

"Well, consider your revenge enacted." Draco clears his throat. His voice still has that soft, half-amused lilt that it gets when he's trying to brush something off, make it seem as if it were a non-event, that it didn't bother him. Harry knows better, and rage roils through him. He tries to tamp it back down before he does something idiotic like set the fucking Wizengamot on fire. "Karma truly is the proverbial bitch, and it seems I'm just as good at making friends in American prison as I am in the Auror force. Which, if I'm not clear, means not at all."

"You're clear," Harry says. And that does nothing to ease his worry. Or his anger. But he can't think of that, doesn't want to have that image of Draco in his head, of someone hurting him. "How are you ringing me up?" he demands instead. "We've been looking for you for weeks--Zabini's not been able to find any record of you--"

"Breathe, Harry." Draco's voice is soft, but there's a command to it that settles Harry, brings him up short. 

He clenches the phone in his hand. "I need to know." It doesn't matter that the words catch in the back of his throat, that he knows Draco can hear how desperate he is. "Tell me you're not hiding away from me."

"As if I could." Draco's quiet for a moment. Harry can hear something in the background that sounds like voices, muffled but still nearby. "I'm on a contraband mobile. I can't tell you more than that, just in case they're listening in. They shouldn't be, but I don't trust this place, Harry." The sound of his name in Draco's voice sets Harry's stomach fluttering. Still, he manages to hold back, to listen to Draco as he adds, "You can't find me because I'm listed as John Doe. But I've a prisoner number. 59304-A-23. Do you have that?"

Harry fumbles for the biro and small Auror notepad he keeps in his pocket. "Say it again."

"59304," Draco repeats. "A-23."

Harry reads it back to him. 

"That's it," Draco says. He hesitates, then he says, "I don't know how much longer I have--they'll be rounding us up soon to go back inside--and I've no idea when I'll be able to call again." He's silent for a moment, and his voice breaks when he says, "I just needed to hear you."

"Draco," Harry breathes. There's so much swirling through him, anger and fear and worry and hope. He doesn't know what to do with it all. "I'm going to get you out of there--"

"I know you will." Draco laughs, but it's filled with warmth. Love. "You're Harry Potter. Being reckless and headstrong's built into your Gryffindor DNA."

Neither of them say anything. The door to the courtroom opens again; the witch comes out. Harry looks away from her, down the empty corridor. He turns, puts his back to the door, his shoulders hunched forward as if he can keep this space, this moment private.

"I miss you," Harry says thickly. "So goddamned much."

"Harry," Draco says, and it's an anguished whisper across the miles. Harry's heart hurts. He closes his eyes again. He can almost see Draco there, gripping his mobile tightly, his own face lined by the strain of being apart. 

And Harry draws in a ragged breath. "I'm speaking before the Wizengamot," he says. "Against the Registry."

Draco doesn't answer.

"We'll stop it." Harry doesn't know why he's telling Draco this, but he needs Draco to understand. Just in case the news makes it across the Atlantic. Harry doesn't know how it would, or why, but he couldn't bear it if Draco didn't know Harry's doing all he can. "I promise."

"My mother--"

"She'll be safe." Harry wants to be able to touch, to smooth his hair back, to ease his worry. 

Draco's exhale is almost inaudible. "All right," he says. "I know you'll help her." 

And Harry will. Narcissa's his family now. The same way Draco is. They're both Harry's, and he'll go down fighting for them if he has to. 

The silence between them stretches out, but it's not awkward. Not something Harry needs to fill. He can hear Draco's soft breath across the line, and there's something comforting about their connection here. 

"You're alive," Harry says finally. "I was so fucking worried." He doesn't know how to put his fear into words, that sense that maybe he was wrong, maybe Draco been hurt, maybe there was nothing Harry could do. He drags his tongue across his bottom lip; his skin's dry. Cracked in places. "I still haven't forgiven you for pushing me through that portal."

"We couldn't have both made it," Draco says, and Harry knows he's right. Still, he stares down at the joins in the marble floor, thin narrow cracks between the smooth slabs. "I wasn't going to let you get caught here. You're Harry Potter." Draco's voice goes low. Fierce. "Do you know what Wilkinson would have done to you?"

No. Harry doesn't. But he thinks Draco must have an idea. Probably from his own experience, and another wave of rage shifts through Harry's belly. He'll kill Wilkinson for hurting Draco. He doesn't care what anyone says; that's a promise he'll keep. 

"I should have been with you," Harry says, stubbornly, and Draco snorts in his ear. 

"You're an idiot." But there's a gentleness beneath the sharp words. Draco sighs. "We can argue about this later--"

For the rest of their lives, Harry thinks, and he hopes they'll be two old men bickering about this together. 

"But," Draco continues, "for now, let's just go under the assumption I was right to do what I did." He huffs a laugh. "I know that's hard for you to accept."

"I can try," Harry says. A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. His nerves are steadying. It's Draco, he knows. Something about the bastard calms Harry, makes him feel as if he can take on the whole bloody world if he needs to. 

There's a noise on the other end of the phone, a muffled conversation that Harry can barely catch, and then Draco's back. "I have to go," he says hurriedly. "I don't know when I can ring you again, but, Harry--"

"Yes?" Harry clings to the phone, desperate to keep Draco for the few seconds he might have. 

"I love you," Draco says, his voice rough. "Whatever happens, I want you to always remember that. I love you. Wholly. Do you understand?"

Harry's stomach twists. "Draco--"

"I love you." Draco sounds savage, needy. "Say it back, Harry."

"I love you too," Harry manages to get out, and then Draco's gone, the empty silence of the line left behind.

Harry lowers his mobile, looks at the screen. He tries to redial the number; it doesn't go through. 

"Goddamn it." Harry's fingers curl around the mobile. He thinks about flinging it, but he doesn't dare. He needs it, in case Draco rings him up again. 

He leans against the wall, his body shaking. The relief he'd had at hearing Draco's voice is fading, twisting into a deeper worry. One he hadn't faced before. Draco's in MACUSA hands, and if he's listed as a John Doe in their system, they've no intention of giving him back. 

Not any time soon at least. 

Harry runs a hand through his hair, his head falling back against the marble tile. He stares blankly up at the ceiling, trying to collect his thoughts. Trying to figure out what to do. 

The door to the courtroom opens again. 

"Inspector Potter," a man says, and Harry looks his way. "They're ready for you."

Fuck the Wizengamot, Harry thinks bitterly, but he pushes himself off the wall, starts to walk towards the open door. "Thanks," he says as the man holds the door wider, and the witch at the desk gives him a sympathetic look. 

Merlin only knows what he's going to face in here. But Draco's alive and as terrified as Harry might still be for Draco's safety, he knows where he is now. Knows how to find him. 

Now he just has to figure out how to get him the hell out. 

Harry steps through the courtroom door.

It slams shut behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, you can subscribe for Tales from the Special Branch updates [here on AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/series/661862) or follow me [on tumblr at femmequixotic!](http://femmequixotic.tumblr.com). I'm taking Special Branch asks there. The next chapter of Set Me Free will post on Sunday, August 26 (ish).


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Harry testifies, Blaise calls in a favour, and Jake and Tom are very far from home and country.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My dearest readers and Special Branch enthusiasts, I've missed you all SO MUCH!!! I am so sorry for the delay--it was not intended. This chapter was beastly hard to write to begin with, and then RL kept knocking me down. First of all, Noe and I moved in mid-August, then, even before I could finish unpacking, we both came down with a horrible flu which has now morphed into a respiratory THING that I haven't been able to shake for almost two weeks now. I'm still hacking up a lung, and we're still drowning in moving boxes, but despite my need to sleep eighteen hours a day, the saga of Seven Four Alpha cannot be kept down! There are many, many things in this current installment that we've all been waiting for, so I hope you will accept my apology for my tardiness with this 30K chapter? <3 <3 <3
> 
> Love love love to sassy-cissa and to noe for assuring me it was alright to get well first and post second. I'm very sorry this is so late, but I do hope it will have been worth the wait!

The air of the Wizengamot courtroom is cold, crackling with tension, heavy with the self-righteous fury of fifty-odd politicians glaring daggers at one another. Harry rubs his hands over the thin woollen sleeves of his suit coat, as if doing so could warm him. Heads turn towards him as he walks past the rows of benches, his footsteps echoing on the gold and black tiled floor. Torches glow across the black marble walls, casting long, flickering shadows across the grim faces now watching Harry; the deep plum-red and velvety black of the Wizengamot's robes stand out against the polished walnut of the bench desks. 

Harry's heart thuds; he feels a bit ill. He closes his eyes for the briefest of moments, drawing to a stop as he breathes in the scents of old wood and lemon oil, the subtle herbal earthiness of the myrrh and rosemary burning on the tall braziers stood behind the tall slat-backed chair in the middle of the room. Harry sways with his next step, and he's fifteen again, sat in that very chair with the whole of the Wizengamot frowning down at him for breaking the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery. He'd been terrified, and rightly so, he realises now as an adult, and Harry can't quite fathom the unspoken fear grown adults had of him when he'd been little more than a child. Then again, at the ripe old age of twenty-six, Harry still manages to set the Wizengamot's nerves on edge. He wonders, stepping closer to that awful chair, how uneasy they'd all be if they knew about the marks that shift and ooze across his skin. Those dark strokes unsettle Harry; he can only imagine the furor that would erupt around him if these stodgy old bastards caught sight of them.

Some of the faces staring down at Harry are the same ones he'd faced eleven years ago. Others are entirely different, new witches and wizards that have come in to replace members of the Wizengamot killed in the war--or imprisoned afterwards. Voldemort's influence had extended well into the Ministry, after all. Harry hasn't forgotten how easily the government fell back then, how quickly Cornelius Fudge slid from grace, only to be replaced by something more sinister, more coldly destructive than anything Fudge might have envisioned. 

Politics truly is a temperamental lover, its fleeting promise of power drowning witches and wizards alike in its siren song whilst the very nation they're sworn to protect washes away at their feet, losing ground to the angry tides, an ethics and morality it might never reclaim.

Kingsley's standing beside the chair. He looks tired, his skin almost grey in the firelight, his mouth drawn down at the corners. Still, he gives Harry a faint smile as Harry approaches him, clasps Harry's hand tightly in his own. 

"You'll be fine," Kingsley says quietly, and Harry nods. He's not certain he will, but he's no choice. He has to do this.

Harry can still hear that final _I love you_ from Draco. His stomach twists; he wonders if his mobile will ring again, if that poshly mocking voice will echo in his ear once more. He has to believe Draco will find a way. At least Harry knows where he is now. 59304-A-23. Draco's prisoner number is burned into Harry's memory. He whispers it, his lips barely moving, as he glances around the courtroom, takes in the blur of dark robes and crisp white cravats surrounding him. 

"All right, lad?" Kingsley's looking at him, his brow furrowed. 

Harry's not certain he can be, not right now, but he tries his best to give Kingsley a reassuring smile. "Just nerves," he says, but he's not certain Kingsley believes him. Harry doesn't really care. He just has to get through this, has to perform well enough to win some of the Wizengamot to their side. And when he's done, he's every intention of running back to the incident room, of finding Parkinson and Zabini, of telling them he's heard from Draco, of asking them to help him find a way to get Draco out, to bring him home. 

But first, Harry has to make certain Draco has a home to come back to. Safely.

"I can do this," Harry murmurs, mostly to himself, and he exhales, steps past Kingsley. Takes his seat in the tall, uncomfortably slatted chair. It feels too familiar, all of this, and Harry grips the arms of the chair, half-expecting the chains coiled at his feet to rise up, their shackles clasping around his wrists. To his relief, the heavy iron links stay silent and still.

"Good afternoon, Inspector Potter." Chief Warlock Tiberius Ogden frowns down at him from the centre bench. He looks older than he had in mid-July, the last time Harry'd stepped in front of a Wizengamot tribunal. Lucius Malfoy had been alive then; Harry'd walked into Courtroom Four that day for the same reason he's here now: for Draco's sake. His hands slip off the chair arms; Harry smoothes his fingers over the silk of the grey tie he'd nicked from Draco's wardrobe. It's almost like having a bit of Draco here with him, a whisper of comfort that slides across his skin. Harry sits up straighter in the chair, glances around the rows of benches lining the walls of the courtroom. Charles Grimblehawk is peering down at him from one side; Harry catches sight of Portia Penrose across the room. Both had been involved in the deliberations about Lucius Malfoy's transfer. Harry wonders if they have any regrets about their decision to move the elder Malfoy to Brussels' care. Harry can't help but ask himself if Draco's father would still be alive if they'd refused. 

If Harry hadn't spoken up for the transfer as well.

Harry's hands clench; he forces them flat, presses his palms against the soft wool of his trousers. He clears his throat, suddenly aware that Ogden is still watching him, still waiting. "Chief Warlock." His voice sounds faint to his ears; he's all too aware of heads tilting towards others, of whispers, soft and sibilant, slithering through the room. 

Ogden taps his gavel against the lectern built into his desk, a quick, sharp echo of wood against wood. "Silence, please." His tight scowl towards the other benches is disapproving, and a heavy hush falls across the courtroom. "I understand," Ogden says after a moment, his attention returning to Harry, "that you're here this afternoon to share your concern about the implementation of the potential Registration Act for known Death Eaters and their families." He leans against his desk, his arms crossed over the top. The look he gives Harry is sober, guarded. 

Harry nods, his throat tight. His gaze finds Griselda Marchbanks, a few seats to Ogden's right. She raises an eyebrow at him, and Harry lifts his chin. He'll be damned if he lets that cow think he's frightened of her. 

"It's my opinion," Harry says, and his voice is steady as it rings out in the silence of the courtroom, "that the legislation being pushed forward by Ms Marchbanks and Mr Hawkworth does nothing to protect British soil from the actions of witches and wizards who might wish to harm this great nation of ours." He glances at Kingsley, still standing a few feet from him, his mouth a hard, grim line, his arms crossed over his chest. What sort of rubbish Marchbanks and her lot have already thrown Kingsley's way? Harry shifts in the chair, its seat hard and unyielding against his thighs. "As I'm certain the Minister has pointed out, the Department of Magical Law Enforcement has tracking systems and protocols in place already to make certain we can find known Death Eaters--"

"The way you did with Antonin Dolohov?" A man rises from the benches, tall and thin, his mousy brown hair only beginning to grey at the temples. Ernest Hawkworth. His expression is almost mild, slightly bored, but his blue eyes are sharp and keen as they sweep over Harry. "You're saying Auror headquarters was aware we had a Death Eater moving through Britain only a few months past?"

"Dolohov was a different matter." Harry meets Hawkworth's gaze evenly. "He was being funded by outside sources and--"

"What you're telling us, Mr Potter," Hawkworth says smoothly, "is that the Aurors are aware of potential Death Eater movements throughout Britain, yes?" 

At that, Harry nods, wary. "We do our best--"

"But the reality, Mr Potter." Hawkworth cuts him off again, turning ever so slightly away from Harry and towards the other benches. "The reality is that men like Antonin Dolohov, James Selwyn, Rodolphus Lestrange, and, I daresay, the late Lucius Malfoy were still able to break our laws without any of our DMLE stopping them…" He stops, considers. "I suppose I might also suggest that this even happened without certain elements of our Auror force seeming to care about said criminal activity--nay, even actively hiding such activity, given that we do have the unfortunate circumstance of Inspector Marcus Wrightson's involvement with these men's actions." Hawkworth's laugh is wry, low. He shakes his head. "Pity."

Harry tries to push back his rising irritation. "That was an anomaly."

"Was it?" Hawkworth looks back at Harry. There's a calm coldness to him that makes the hairs on Harry's neck rise even more that Marchbanks' self-righteousness does. Hawkworth's thin eyebrow goes up. "I'm afraid that argument, Inspector, is rather undermined by the ability of Selwyn and Lestrange to move in and out of Azkaban to do their work with no interference from any DMLE personnel." Here, he turns away from Harry, faces the benches. "Which, as I'm certain my fellow MWs recall, is part of the reason we've Luxembourg breathing down our necks at the moment." His mouth purses for a moment, his disgust evident. "Much less Brussels poking about, attempting to cripple the rightful administration of justice, procedure and legislative control this very assembly established in the fifteenth century to govern and guide the British people."

A murmur goes around the benches--an unhappy one at that. 

Harry sits forward, his hands gripping the arm of the chair, his fingernails digging into the scarred wood, gouged by generations of witnesses and prisoners. He can feel the anger twisting inside of him, swelling up, threatening to break free, to burn through this wretched chamber, fueled by the full force of Harry's magic. 

The chains attached to the chair clink in warning, their wide links uncoiling beside the thick chair legs. Harry tries to exhale, tries to calm himself. He thinks of Draco, of the sound of Draco's voice, of the knowledge that Draco needs Harry not to bugger this up right now. Harry keeps his focus on Hawkworth, despite feeling the heat of Marchbanks' gaze on him.

"What happened earlier this summer with Azkaban," Harry says, and it takes everything he has not to rise out of his chair, not to give free rein to his burgeoning temper, "has nothing to do with whether or not we should be tracking the friends and family of known Death Eaters. The DMLE has an established protocol in place--"

"Which obviously doesn't do what it's meant to do." Hawkworth's voice rises. "Our Auror force is in chaos, Inspector Potter. Not only have we had an infiltration of Death Eater influence in the ranks of our law enforcement, we've lost bloody control not only of our prison system, but also of our Dementors, spirited away by an Unspeakable and a family member of one of your team." He leans over his desk, spittle flying from his lips. "Where's the investigation into that? Has Constable Zabini faced charges--"

"Constable Zabini had nothing to do with his grandfather's actions." Harry can't keep himself back any longer. He's half out of his seat before the chains grab him, pulling him back, pinning his wrists to the chair arms. Harry struggles against them; they only grow tighter. He glares up at Hawkworth, breathing hard. "You fucking know that."

Hawkworth's smile is thin. Almost triumphant. "But do I?" He holds his hands up, his glance sliding over the benches. "Do any of us? All I can see, Inspector, is gross incompetence at best. At worst, this seems indicative of a systemic issue that perhaps demands greater Wizengamot oversight of our law enforcement procedures." His cold gaze lands on Harry again. "And yet you're sat here asking us to believe you when you say the Aurors can continue with what they're doing, and we'll all be safe as houses here, despite knowing Death Eaters are on the rise once more?" He snorts. "Forgive me, Mr Potter, but I think I require far more reassurance on this matter than what even our supposedly heroic Boy Who Lived seems willing to provide."

A cacophony of voices breaks out around the room, members of the Wizengamot shouting at each other from one side to the other. Harry looks over at Kingsley; the Minister's face is set, his shoulders stiff as he glares defiantly around the room. Harry wants to argue with Hawkworth, wants to tell him exactly how he can fuck off, but there's a kernel of truth in what he's said that even Harry can't argue. Who is he speak on this matter, anyway? The respect he holds from some quarters for defeating Voldemort is something Harry's never felt comfortable with. After all, he hadn't done anything. Hadn't fought, not really. Hadn't been strategic. Hadn't been a leader. For fuck's sake, he'd spent most of the war hiding out in a bloody forest, and in the end, standing against one of the most powerful wizards in the world, Harry hadn't overpowered him. Hadn't beaten him. Harry'd just been stubbornly, stupidly Gryffindor. He'd looked his death in the face, and hadn't cared. His defeat of the Dark Lord hadn't been grand. All Harry had done was stand there. Cast a sodding Expelliarmus. He hadn't defeated Voldemort. Not really. 

No one should think him a hero. There were others more deserving of that acclaim. Harry swallows, looks away. He'd just bloody existed. 

"Order!" Ogden slams his gavel against his desk once, twice. The bangs echo over the furious clamour of the Wizengamot, a handful defending Harry, most others agreeing with Hawkworth. "I say, _order._ " 

The courtroom falls into silence. 

"Sit the hell down, Ernest," Ogden says, his tone peevish. "Before you rile the whole bloody place."

Hawkworth sinks back down into his chair, but Harry thinks he looks pleased with himself, the bastard. 

Ogden huffs an exasperated sigh and scowls at the chair that holds Harry still. "And release him. Inspector Potter's not a prisoner." The chains hesitate. 

"Now." Ogden's command is firm, and the chains slip away, falling back down to the floor with what Harry's rather certain is a sulky clank. Ogden leans back in his chair. "Your point, Inspector." When Griselda Marchbanks starts to object, Ogden glares at her, pointing his gavel her way. "Wait your damned turn, Grizzy. I'll not have this courtroom fall into complete bloody chaos. We've procedure, for Circe's sake."

Marchbanks purses her mouth, but she sits back, her salt-and-pepper curls crisp beneath her black velvet toque.

Ogden looks back at Harry. He sets his gavel down. "Go on."

The chains shift at Harry's feet, nudging Harry's boot with a definite ill-humour as they coil back around the chair legs. Harry eyes them suspiciously, but they settle with a soft jangle.

"I'm not saying we might not need to rethink the ways we track Death Eaters," Harry says after a moment. "Particularly given recent events. Dolohov shouldn't have been able to come in and out of the country the way he did, and we ought to have stricter ways of governing Azkaban. We ought to have learned from the war that our system of Dementors and a skeleton staff of Auror guards was perhaps not the most effective means of keeping prisoners at bay. There've been enough breakouts in recent years." Sirius, for one. Bellatrix, Lucius, all the Death Eaters that Voldemort helped to escape as he came to power. "They should have indicated to us that there was a flaw in the system." And Harry holds himself responsible for that as well. The whole DMLE should have realised there was a problem. Luxembourg's right about that.

Harry looks around the room, tries to make eye contact with as many of the members as he can. They mostly glance away from him, almost as if they're embarrassed, but Timothy Perkins, one of Marchbanks' few vocal opponents, smiles at him. Nods. It's enough to give Harry a flutter of hope. 

"But," Harry says, his voice growing stronger, steadier, "the legislation on proposal today does nothing more than to put the onus of being associated with Death Eaters on innocent individuals who have done wrong." Harry worries that he sounds too earnest, too naïve. He shifts in the chair, tries to speak with care, tries to sound as if he's more authority than he feels he has. "We're making an assumption of guilt without any knowledge of criminal activity or intent. That's not the foundation of our legal system. Britain prides itself on the presumption of innocence, the belief that, in a courtroom like this one, it's the requirement of the prosecution services to prove guilt, not the defendant--"

That seems to be all Griselda Marchbanks can bear. "And, might I remind the good Inspector, it is the requirement of our government to protect its citizens." Marchbanks stands up. Her blue eyes are shrewd and bright as she studies him, her slim, pale hands pressed against the dark wood of the desk in front her bench. A thick file jacket lies between them, bits of brightly coloured paper tabs sticking from it. "One would think that as a man sworn to uphold and defend the laws of our land, Inspector Potter would have that as a high priority-"

Harry sits forward. The end of the chain rises up at his feet, quivering ever so slightly. Harry tries to keep his temper tamped down. "You damned well know I do."

Marchbanks gives him an even look. "But do I?" The corner of her mouth tugs up ever so slightly. "And whilst my esteemed colleague here--" She gestures towards Hawkworth. "Seems most dubious about your qualifications to judge the uptick in Death Eater activity, I must say I myself find it quite fascinating that a man of your stature within our society, a man who defeated the Dark Lord, who lost friends and family--including his own mother and father--to Lord Voldemort and his vile followers, a man our children idolise, follow every media mention of, and I daresay emulate without critical thought, would speak against legislation meant to protect our families and our way of life." Marchbanks' eyebrow quirks up. "But then again, perhaps Inspector Potter has a more personal reason for opposing this Act?" Her smile widens. It's wintry cold. Harry doesn't look away. He won't give her the fucking satisfaction.

The silence in the courtroom swells into a uneasy weightiness, one in which Harry and Marchbanks study one another, the rest of the Wizengamot looking between them. Harry knows she's trying to call his bluff, trying to make him flinch. If he does, she'll keep his secret. If not...well. Harry's no bloody intention of letting her control this particular story. He lifts his chin, his mouth tight. He can feel the magic roiling beneath his skin, wanting to surge forward, to explode outward, taking Marchbanks and her smug self-righteousness with it. Harry clenches his fists, digs his knuckles into his thighs. The chains rattle at his feet. Marchbanks notices; her mouth quirks up a fraction more. She doesn't care if he lets loose, he knows. It'd fit into her narrative, after all. 

Harry turns his head. Catches sight of Hermione, sat on one of the benches up in the gallery. Bulstrode's a seat or two down from her, just before the swathe of journos. Harry can make out Orla Quirke's ginger topknot. In for a Knut, in for a Galleon, he thinks, and he lets his his gaze swing back to Marchbanks. 

"You're referring," Harry says, and his voice rings out in the quiet chamber, "to my current personal relationship with Unspeakable Draco Malfoy, I'm certain." There's a soft gasp all around him, and Marchbanks stiffens, her surprise that he'd go there obvious. Even Kingsley looks over at Harry. 

"Potter," Kingsley murmurs. "You don't have to do this. Self-immolation isn't necessary--"

"Maybe it is." Harry doesn't care. He's tired of Marchbanks holding this over him. It's not how he or Draco would have wanted this to go, but needs must, and Harry truly doesn't give a fuck any longer. He stands. The chains attached to the chair clink together, rising up just enough for him to be aware of them, but they hold steady. Wait to see what he does. Harry doesn't move away. He finds Hermione's gaze in the gallery, looks at her for a long moment, and then she nods at him, and in that quick careful dip of her head, Harry finds all the courage he needs.

He steps forward. The chains move with him, hovering besides his boots, but they hold back. Harry looks around the courtroom. "Yes." His voice is clear, calm. This is what he needs to do. He knows that, whatever it might cost him in the short-term. "I'm opposing this Registration because it will affect my partner. Me. And we're not the only ones. Families will be torn apart, relationships romantic and otherwise destroyed, if the Act is passed the way Ms Marchbanks and Mr Hawkworth have written it." A murmur goes around the room. The journos all put quills to paper, their section a flurry of movement. Save for Orla Quirke. She just sits still, her brown eyes fixed on Harry, her quill hovering above her notebook. 

Harry draws in an unsteady breath. He hates this, hates laying his private life open for the world to see. That constant fascination, the lack of privacy, the belief that because of whom he was, wizarding society owned every aspect of his life, deserved to know everything about him, including whom he loved, had been part of what destroyed his relationship with Ginny. Their end had come down to more than just that, Harry knows, but the scrutiny hadn't helped. He and Jake had escaped most of it because no one in fucking Luxembourg really cared, and when they'd been in London, Harry had been careful. And back then the _Prophet_ had been willing to look the other way for the most part, thanks to Gawain pressuring Cuffe to do so. To be honest, Harry shagging an American Unspeakable has far less front-page drama than him bedding a former Death Eater. Even Harry can admit that fact.

Merlin, but this isn't how Harry'd wanted people to find out about any of this. He'd wanted it to be slower, more careful. Not here, with him standing in the middle of the fucking Wizengamot, with Draco thousands of miles away, trapped behind the iron bars of Oudepoort. Harry's jaw tightens, his shoulders ache. He thinks of Draco, thinks of long, coltish limbs and pale silver hair, thinks of the way he feels when Draco wraps his arms around Harry, holds him close. 

It's enough to keep him steady, to give him the strength to say what he needs to say. What he might never again have the chance to express, at least standing here today amongst the most powerful men and women in the British Ministry.

"The moment you vote this legislation into reality," Harry says, and despite the lowness of his voice, his words echo in the silent room, "my relationship with Unspeakable Malfoy becomes illegal. Not unlike it was before the buggery laws were revoked." His fingernails dig into his palms; he looks around at the faces staring down at him, some shocked, some troubled, some disgusted, and his stomach flips. He doesn't know what he's doing, why he's saying this, but then he sees Hermione again, and she's smiling at him, warm and supportive the way only she can.

Harry draws in a slow breath. Exhales. "Perhaps some of you might prefer that, but, to be honest, you've not a damned right to determine my life or disapprove my choice of partner. So yes, perhaps my speaking on this has a bit of selfishness to it." He looks up at Ogden, who's studying him uncertainly. "The thing is, if I weren't speaking for Draco, I'd be standing here speaking for his aunt. Some of you know her. Andromeda Tonks, whose daughter and husband were killed by Death Eaters. But because her sister was married to a Death Eater, the law proposed and written by Ms Marchbanks and Mr Hawkworth will require her to register, to be tracked, to be blocked from having any legally acknowledged relationships, to have her assets examined and possibly frozen by the Ministry. And where does it stop from there?" Harry's angry again; he takes another step forward. The chains clink again, a warning in case he moves too far from the chair. "Will you register her grandson--my _godson_ \--the child of two fallen war heroes--because his grandmother was forced onto the Registry? How far is this going to spiral out?"

No one speaks. No one breathes. Harry can feel his magic crackling across his fingertips. He looks down at his hands, spread out in front of him. Tiny blue flames flicker across his skin, faint in the dim light of the courtroom. Harry closes his fists, curls his fingers in against his palms. The flames go out, but Harry can still feel the wisps of heat, the burn of the magic. He glances at Hermione. Her eyes are wide, her face still. Worried. Harry's gaze slides back to his clenched hands. The marks on his arm burn against his skin, from wrist to bicep; he sees the faint tendrils of them curling out from beneath the cuff of his sleeve, the edge of his jacket. Breathe, he tells himself. Just breathe. 

Harry drops his hands to his sides. Stands quietly for a long moment, his head bent, counting the slow, even breaths that swell his chest, and then he looks back up at Griselda Marchbanks. "You know this is wrong," Harry says. It's barely a whisper, but the words feel loud, raw in the silence of the courtroom. The others watch him. Harry fights the urge to lash out at the whole lot of them. Instead, he licks his lip, lets his stiff fingers loosen, open up. "All of you do."

Marchbanks doesn't answer for a moment. Her gaze takes Harry in, and it's almost as if they're alone, the two of them. A flicker of regret crosses her face, flittingly quick, and Harry half-thinks she might give in, might stop this idiocy. And then she draws in a deep breath, straightens her shoulders. Her voice is even when she says, "It is my deep belief, Inspector Potter, that my duty as a member of the Wizengamot compels me to protect magical Britain at all costs. We have lost far too many witches and wizards to the recent Troubles, and it is time this government took a strong stance against those who might wish to bring our nation to her knees. Individuals who might desire to enslave or destroy those on this island with little to no magical power. There are men and women and children, all British citizens, who cannot defend themselves against attack. We saw this eight years past. Haven't we the moral obligation to defend them from harm?" Her mouth is tight as she studies Harry. "After the war, you yourself pushed for stronger sentences against Death Eaters--"

"Based on known acts," Harry says, his voice hot. "Never on mere association--"

"And look where we are now." Marchbanks lifts her hands, the belled black velvet of her robe sleeves hanging from her pale, thin wrists. She turns towards her fellow Wizengamot members. "Mr Shacklebolt's government is under questioning by the International Confederation of Wizards. Our prison system for all intents and purposes is shut down. The Wizarding Court of Law in Brussels is questioning our ability to shepherd our own citizens through our own legal system. Britain's no longer a sovereign nation. We're tied to the ICW, governed by Luxembourg's decisions, not those of our own."

Heads begin to nod around her; the low murmur of voices begins to build. Harry can feel Kingsley tense beside him. Suddenly uncertain himself, Harry takes a step back towards the chair, and he hates himself for giving up that ground. 

"Our status as a valued member nation of the ICW," Kingsley says, his voice rising above the muffled clamour, "requires us to engage with the oversight process whenever the Supreme Mugwump believes it necessary for the good of the confederation as a whole--"

Timothy Perkins jumps up, his toque nearly sliding from his head. "Which, I might point out, none of you lot complained about when the ICW questioned potential wizarding rights issues in Russia and Greece--"

"Because," another member shouts out, his face flushed, scowling, "those were legitimate concerns regarding the governmental processes in those countries--"

"Exactly." Perkins jabs a finger into the air, a satisfied expression on his face. "And surely, MacIlroy, you're not going to be suggesting Britain shouldn't be held accountable for some of our recent cock-ups."

That doesn't go over well with MacIlroy, who pushes himself to his feet. "I'll bloody well say that whatever's happening in our DMLE ought to be addressed by this gathering here on British soil--" He waves an arm around himself, his sleeve nearly flapping into the face of the witch beside him. "Not by some sodding twats sat across the Channel with nary a rat's arse idea of how we do things properly here."

Marchbanks holds her hands up. "If the gentlemen will allow me," she says, and she doesn't raise her voice in the slightest, but Perkins and MacIlroy fall silent. "Thank you." She inclines her head to both of them, clasps her hands in front of her. She pauses, letting her gaze sweep across the benches. "Perhaps this might surprise some of you, but I don't disagree with Mr Perkins." She lets that hang in the air for a moment; Harry watches her suspiciously. He knows enough to recognise that Perkins and Marchbanks are on opposite ends of the political spectrum. Perkins' eyes are narrowed; he's still standing, but his body is tense, his shoulders hunched. 

"What is that old bat up to now?" Kingsley's murmur is barely audible, even to Harry. He looks back over his shoulder; Kingsley's broad face is uneasy in the flickering light from the still smoking braziers. 

"Britain does hold responsibility for the policing issues that have arisen over the summer." The smile Marchbanks throws Harry's way is as quick and razor-sharp. "As an Auror, wouldn't you agree, Inspector Potter? We may have our differences, but I think neither one of us would condone what Marcus Wrightson caused."

Harry doesn't want to engage in this. Marchbanks has a powerful gift for twisting one's words to support what she wants. He rubs a thumb over his knuckles, watching her. Marchbanks doesn't look away, and Harry finally, grudgingly, shrugs. "I believe the ICW has a right to examine what went wrong at Azkaban and make recommendations on how we could prevent it again." A quick glance at Kingsley, who nods. Harry feels a bit of tension ease from between his shoulder blades. Still, he knows full well to proceed with caution.

"I see." Marchbanks looks like a kindly grandmother, but her eyes are cold and shrewd. "It's my belief that what this summer has shown is that Britain needs a change. What we've been doing in recent years appears to have had no real traction, given us none of the forward movement our country needed after the war. Perhaps that's not entirely the fault of Mr Shacklebolt's government, but throughout our history moments such as these, when there is such a great gulf between what our legislative practice is and what ideals we long to attain, have always required the Wizengamot to seek the wisdom of the vox populi. " Her gaze slides over to Kingsley. "However, Mr Shacklebolt has made it clear to me that he's no desire to call for a general election any time soon."

A frisson of surprise sparks through Harry, just as it does through the rest of the room. The journos sit forward in their seats again, and Harry catches Hermione leaning across the seats between her and Bulstrode, her head bending to catch whatever Bulstrode's saying to her. Harry looks over at Kingsley. "She asked you to stand down--" 

But Kingsley's not listening to him. Instead he steps forward, and the light from the sconces above glints off his bald pate. His brown skin gleams, deep shadows crease his face. "It's in the best interests of magical Britain to have a stable government in place. You know that, Griselda. My views on that have made up the great majority of our discussions about this."

Marchbanks laughs, brittle and sharp. "You're suggesting your government is stable."

Kingsley doesn't look away from her. "More so than others." He sounds calm. Steady. "More so than what you want to put into place."

"I want what's best for my country, Minister." Marchbanks sounds icy. Vicious. "And more and more, I'm becoming concerned that you and your Cabinet are not the government Britain needs at this time. So I'm afraid you've forced my hand, Mr Shacklebolt." Her mouth thins, draws down at the corners. "As I am allowed by the Wizengamot Supply and Recourse Act of 1822, I would like to formally lodge a complaint towards the Minister and say explicitly that I have no confidence in Her Majesty's magical government." There's a sharp intake of breath from Kingsley, and Marchbanks' smile widens, if only a bit. She watches him closely. "If the bailiffs will clear the courtroom of all non-members, I would respectfully request from my colleagues a vote regarding their confidence in this government." Marchbanks tilts her head ever so slightly. "With all that vote might entail."

Pandemonium breaks out around the room, voices rising, Perkins on his feet, shouting that Marchbanks hasn't the right to do such a thing. 

But she does. Even Harry knows this. 

He looks at Kingsley. "She's going to take you down," he says, and his heart stutters against his chest. If Kingsley's out of office, what will happen to Draco? How the hell is Harry going to manage to get him out of Oudepoort--and Christ, Harry feels a right selfish shit even thinking about that right now when Kingsley's facing this, but he can't help himself. "Kingsley--"

The Minister exhales. Looks over at him. His face is lined. Weary. "I've been expecting this," he says, and his hand settles on Harry's shoulder, warm and heavy. "I'll do my damnedest not to let her win."

Harry's throat is tight. "And if she does?"

Kingsley's gaze slides away. A muscle in his cheek flutters as he tenses his jaw. "We'll deal with that, if it comes." His hand slides away away as a bailiff stops next to Harry, his red velvet jacket crossed with a black sash. 

"Inspector," the bailiff says, his voice soft. Harry looks at him, blankly. He knows the Wizengamot bailiffs are pulled from the Hit Wizards, sometimes on rotation. This man looks familiar, and Harry wonders if he's seen him before. Perhaps with Lucius Malfoy. He's young, maybe even younger than Harry. His face is regretful as his gaze flicks towards Kingsley, then back to Harry. "You need to leave, sir."

Somehow Harry manages to nod. The journos are being pushed out one of the side doors of the gallery; the bailiff leads Harry to another door, a smaller one, tucked into the opposite corner. "Use this staircase, and you'll be able to avoid that lot," the bailiff says quietly, looking back over at the journalists. Harry catches sight of Orla Quirke again; for a moment, he thinks she sees him, but then she's turning away. The bailiff holds the door open for Harry, and Harry steps through. Before the bailiff closes the door though, he stops, his lip caught between his teeth. He hesitates, and then he says, "Malfoy's not a bad one." He meets Harry's eyes; Harry's surprised by the worry he sees there. "His dad was a shit, but…" He hesitates, then says, "I went through my first year of training with the Aurors before the Hit Wizards pulled me over. Malfoy was finishing up his. A lot of the blokes I was with gave him hell, but he never rose to their baiting. He did his work, and he was bloody good at it."

"I know," Harry says, softly. "He still is."

The bailiff nods. "I respect him. Maybe others don't." He nods back towards the courtroom. "But they never bothered to see past who they thought he was." He studies Harry for a long moment. "I'm glad you did." He hesitates, then adds, almost too quickly, as if he's half-afraid to say it, "And telling that lot in there about the two of you…" He trails off for a moment, and Harry can see him swallow before he meets Harry's gaze again. "My boyfriend and I, well...there's people like us what will be glad of it because if Harry Potter can be with a bloke, and one like Malfoy…" He rubs his face. "It's just Callum's a Slytherin himself, right, and my mam? Maybe she'd understand me being with a man if he weren't one of them, or maybe she still wouldn't, but she respects you. So this...what you said in there..." His voice catches. "Thank you."

Harry reaches out, rests his hand on the other man's shoulder. "What's your name?"

"Alfie." The bailiff clears his throat. "Alfie Bell."

"Well, Alfie Bell," Harry says, and his chest feels tight, constricted. "Go home to your Callum tonight and tell him you love him if you do. It's best to say it before that chance disappears." He thinks of Draco, of that thin, quiet voice echoing across the mobile line. "Promise me that?"

Alfie nods. "I will." His hand closes on the doorknob. Harry can hear the hubbub of the Wizengamot through the half-open door. "I hope they heard you, sir." His face is pale in the dim light of the corridor. "I really bloody do." And then he's stepping back, closing the door, and the uproar fades into quiet. 

"Harry."

When Harry turns, Hermione's there, her face drawn, creased with worry. He lets her draw him against her side, his head dipping down to lean against the curve of her neck. His glasses push up, the edges digging uncomfortably into his forehead. 

"Are you all right?" Hermione asks. Her voice is muffled against his hair. She smells sweet, comforting. Familiar. 

Harry nods; his glasses nearly slip off. He thinks he's okay. None of this feels real at the moment. He steps back, and his hands are shaking as he settles his glasses back on his nose. He presses his palms against his chest, tucking them beneath his arms. The light wool of his suit jacket is scratchy against his fingertips. Hermione's eyeing him, her brow furrowed in concern. He knows that look. "I'm fine," Harry manages to say. "It's just…" He exhales, feeling suddenly tired. "It's been a day." 

"What you said in there--"

"I had to." Harry starts down the corridor. He wonders where Bulstrode's gone to, or if she'd been forced out the other entrance, the one meant for people the Wizengamot doesn't give a damn about. And that thought makes Harry uneasy, uncomfortable. He doesn't like the acknowledgement that he has a certain amount of influence, of power, which is perhaps ridiculous of him, given that he'd just tried to make use of the very same. He rubs the bridge of his nose, just over his glasses. His head's starting to hurt. 

Hermione catches up with him. "You just admitted your relationship in front of half the country's press."

"More than, I'd reckon." Harry turns the corner. There's a stairwell at the end, a set of plain stone steps that spiral up the height of the Ministry itself. A Hit Wizard's guarding them, slouched in boredom against the rough-hewn wall; she snaps to attention when she sees them coming. Evidently she hasn't heard yet about the brouhaha in Courtroom Four. She will soon, Harry thinks, and that makes him wonder what Saul Croaker'll have to say about all this bollocks. 

Probably be happy in the end. He's been furious with Kingsley since before Harry and his team had disappeared to the States.

"Inspector Potter," the Hit Wizard says, unwarding the archway. "Unspeakable Granger." Her gaze follows them as they step through, and the back of Harry's neck prickles. Rounding the first curve of the stairwell, he glances back a bit uncertainly, but the Hit Wizard's set the wards up again and has gone back to slouching against the wall. Harry frowns. He's too jumpy, but still, he stays silent until they've climbed up another storey. 

"Do you think Croaker will have Kingsley's back?" Harry keeps his voice low. 

Hermione doesn't answer at first, and then she sighs, her heels clacking against the stone stairs. "I don't know." She rubs her face. "Maybe. It's not as if he's so fond of Marchbanks either." She glances back over her shoulder at him. "I'm less worried about that than the way you've just thrown yourself to the wolves."

Harry stops. Hermione turns back, a step or two ahead of him; it puts her an inch or so above Harry. "I had to," Harry says again, and his voice cracks. Hermione's lips part, but before she can say anything, Harry barrels on. "Draco and I weren't going to hide any longer. When we came back from Thibodaux, I mean. We'd decided, both of us, that Marchbanks and her lot could fuck off. Gawain already knew, as did Kingsley, and I wanted him to stay at Grimmauld, Hermione--" He breaks off, looks away from her, studying the thick-thin beige veins in the marble blocks of the wall. Harry runs his fingertips over their cool surface. They've been here for two centuries at least. How many whispered conversations like this have they overheard? "If they can see how it'll hurt someone like me, maybe they'll understand. That's all I wanted."

"I know." Hermione's voice is soft. Careful. "But there's being open about it, Harry, and then there's throwing Griselda Marchbanks everything she wants." Hermione reaches out, grabs Harry's hand, lifts it. "Right down to this." Fear ripples through Harry, and he jerks away, tugging at his sleeve before she can see anything. Hermione looks at him, unhappy. "What would you have done if you'd set the fucking Wizengamot on fire, Harry? That wasn't exactly discreet of you. Half the bloody members noticed."

And Harry knows why she's angry. He wonders what she'd say if he pulled his sleeve back, showed her the inky words burning into his skin. Harry thinks about it, almost does, but something holds him back. Keeps his hands at his sides, his fingers curling into his palms. He breathes out, sways ever so slightly on his feet. He catches the thin, wrought iron railing to his left and steadies himself. 

"I know you're worried about Malfoy," Hermione's saying. "But this is mad--"

"He rang me," Harry says, and Hermione breaks off, her eyes widening. "Draco rang me."

"What?" The question's a faint whisper, a half-breath in the empty stairwell. 

Harry settles against the wall, his hands gripping the railing behind him. He leans his head backwards; his hair catches on the rough stone. The thump of his heart is steady. Even. "Before I came in." He looks over at her. "He rang my mobile."

"Oh." Hermione moves closer. Her hair's loose today, not held back with a scarf; her curls fall across her forehead, a wiry tumble that Harry wants to brush back. Instead he leans forward, presses his forehead to her cheek. Her skin's warm, soft. Her hands settle on his back, stroke lightly across his jacket. They're perched precariously here, Harry knows. One wrong move and one or both of them will take a bad tumble. But Harry needs this moment. The quiet of it. The certainty that one of his best friends cares this much. He can feel the faint huff of Hermione's breath as she asks, "Where is he?"

"Prison." Just saying the word makes it feel startlingly real. Harry reaches out, grips Hermione's arm tightly, as if he can cling to her. She doesn't pull away. "Oudepoort." 

They stand together, and then Hermione's hand cups Harry's cheek. Her thumb smoothes across his skin. She's one of the few people Harry will let touch him. Give him comfort like this. Sometimes Harry wonders if he's too broken. "You're certain? I thought Zabini tried--" She breaks off, then says quietly, "I tried, Harry. I looked all through the records I could tap into."

Harry nods. "I know." He pulls back, looks at her. "He wasn't brought in under his name. 59304-A-23. That's the number Draco told me to look for."

"Jesus." Hermione runs her hands over her face. She looks shattered. "We have to get him out of there before…" She trails off, looks back down the stairwell. "If Kingsley's government resigns, we'll have no support for retrieving him."

"I know," Harry says again. His stomach twists. "If that no-confidence vote goes through, the only options are a reorganisation of the Ministry or a general election, and in either case Kingsley could be voted out." He doesn't want to consider what might happen then. 

Hermione, however, has no reservation about that. "They'll vote Marchbanks in." Her voice is grim. "Which is what she thinks will happen or she'd never have opened the door for it." 

Harry closes his eyes. He can't bear to think about that. "Kingsley won't lose." If he says it out loud, maybe it'll be true. Wasn't that something that Flitwick had said in Advanced Charms? That intention can affect magical outcomes? Harry thinks perhaps Flitwick hadn't meant for Harry to take magical theory so literally. He sighs, looks back over at Hermione. "We won't have much time if I'm wrong though."

"Anywhere from a few days to a fortnight," Hermione says. She chews on her lip. "Is Zabini upstairs?"

"Or on his way home." Harry's bloody knackered. "Either way I reckon we could find him. Pull him back in. Why?"

Hermione's already starting up the steps again. "Because," she says as she turns the corner, looking back down at Harry, "the States are five bloody hours behind us, so he and I've some work to do before Saul Croaker catches on to what I'm about to spend the whole damned weekend looking into." 

"Which is?" Harry knows he's being thick, but he wants her to say it. Needs her to say it.

"Finding your boyfriend, you twit." The smile Hermione gives him is warm. "Now, are you ready to help or not?" 

Warmth seeps through Harry's heart. "You really think we can get him out?" There are moments Harry wonders what he's done to deserve friends like the ones he has. 

Hermione hesitates. "We have a prisoner number and a place. Zabini checked the prison records with Alma Espinoza earlier, right?" At Harry's nod, Hermione shrugs. "Let's get her to run the number now. See what pops up. If we can find him, we can figure out what to do next. All right?"

"All right," Harry echoes. They'll find him. Harry knows that. It's just a question of time and resources. Neither of which they have much of at the moment. "Let's do this."

He jogs up the stairs, right on Hermione's heels.

For the first time in weeks, that tiny flame of hope he's been clinging to burns brighter.

***

Jake leans against a crumbling stone wall, looking out over the pointed, grey slate rooftops of the Old City prickling up from terraces stacked one on top of another down the steep hillsides. The Pétrusse and Alzette rivers cleave the city into deep gorges, breached by bridges stretching wide. Dusk is falling; the warm golden afternoon fades into the deep blue of evening, tinged with a rosy pink. Lights glow in the buildings below Jake. The centuries-old fortifications he's standing on are half-brick and half-cliff, whose ragged, rocky face has been shorn roughly to make way for the narrow road that winds down into the city centre.

He's missed Luxembourg, and that realisation surprises Jake. He'd been so goddamn ready to leave back in March, so eager to get home to New York. To his new life with Harry. 

And that makes Jake smile wryly. How times have fucking changed. Still, he can't keep his gaze from drifting down towards his left. He can see the curve of the Alzette one terrace below him, and, just past that, the white plaster walls of the building Harry's rented flat had been in. Third floor, four windows from the left. Jake counts them off. That had been Harry's kitchen. A long rectangle of warm light gleams through the glass panes, framed by white lace curtains drawn open just enough for Jake to see a glimpse of movement. Nothing he can make out from this distance, but a bittersweet melancholy wells up in him, one he doesn't quite expect. Then again, the last night he'd stood in that kitchen, he'd been helping Harry pack up. They'd ordered a curry takeaway and eaten it on Harry's boxes, laughing the whole time, sharing a bottle of expensive wine. And then Harry had kissed him, tasting of garam masala and garlic, and they'd ended up sprawled across the bare mattress in Harry's bedroom, Harry clinging to Jake, gasping against his skin, promising him that New York would be everything they'd both hoped for. 

What a crock of shit, Jake thinks, a bit bitterly. He breathes in the cool and crisp mountain air, then exhales, slow, even, the way he'd learnt to do in the fucking yoga classes Martine had dragged him to back in the city. It'd been for the best though. He and Harry would never have lasted. No matter how hard they tried. Jake knows that now, and maybe he knew it even back then. He and Harry had been off-and-on for long enough; Jake suspects they'd both had their doubts about the longevity of their relationship. Maybe he shouldn't be surprised by that. Jake's never been good at making a commitment stick. Harry'd really been the first person he'd even tried with, but then, Jake's in his thirties now. Part of him wants to settle down. Thinks it's time. And maybe he'd forced that on Harry before Harry was ready. Jake doesn't know. He's not certain he cares now, other than worrying that he might be making the same damn mistake with Blaise again. 

"Fuck," Jake murmurs, and he wishes he had a good bourbon in his hand. He stares, almost blankly, at the river below. Couples stroll along one of the terraces beside it, enjoying their first hours of weekend freedom; groups of friends stand outside of a bar, laughing. Where's Blaise tonight? Is he at home alone, or has he dragged Parkinson away from Whitaker long enough to have a cocktail or two? Maybe he's out flirting with someone, teasing some pretty woman or handsome guy, making them feel as if they're the only person in the world who merits his attention, at least for a moment or two. Bastard.

The stone of the wall is rough against Jake's forearms. He'd left late from Blaise's flat, hoping that Blaise might come home before he had to run for his train, but the Floo had stayed silent. Empty. Jake's half-glad he's staying overnight. He hadn't wanted to at first, but Tom had insisted. Jake suspects he just needs some time away from his kids, and who is Jake to argue with that? Besides, after this morning, Jake's not certain Blaise wants him home. 

Jake doesn't know why he'd said those words before Blaise had Flooed away. It'd been a fit of stupidity, he thinks, but they'd burst out, before he could bite them back. _I fucking love you._ Just hanging there in the air between them, and then the Floo had pulled Blaise away, his eyes wide and horrified. 

And that was that, wasn't it? Jake's always doing this sort of thing, always ruining relationships, pushing people away by saying the wrong goddamn things. He runs a hand through his hair. Maybe his psyche had just been trying to jinx whatever this is between him and Blaise. Jake's never understood why Blaise wants him. Not from the beginning. It's just a remnant of Jake rooting around in Blaise's mind, helping Barachiel Dee heal him. Something had gone wrong; they'd left a connection there that maybe they shouldn't have. That spell hadn't been anything Jake had ever experienced, and just thinking of it now makes goosebumps prickle across his arms. You go through something like that with someone, and it leaves its mark. Jake knows that. It's one of the things he'd studied at Tirésias. Neuromancy has unintended effects sometimes. Maybe this was one of them.

It'll fade, Jake thinks. What he feels for Blaise. Maybe it already is, what with the arguing he and Blaise have been doing for weeks and all. Maybe saying the words was Jake's subconscious way of pounding the nail in the coffin lid, putting Jake's feelings out there so that Blaise could mock him, then walk away. 

They _are_ Jake's feelings, though. He knows that, as much as he might tell himself they're just the effect of a spell, as much as Martine might roll her eyes and point out that Jake had been certain he'd been in love with Harry too. But this doesn't feel the same. Jake loved Harry. He's not trying to rewrite that history between them. And he thinks Harry loved him too. In his own way. But just like there's a difference in the way Harry now looks at Malfoy from how he once looked at Jake, Jake knows deep down inside that what he feels for Blaise is not what he felt for Harry. It's deeper, for one thing. Faster too. Jake hadn't said those words to Harry until they'd been fucking around for a year or so. And even then, he'd couched them in hesitation, uncertainty. _I think I might be falling for you, Potter._ That's what he'd said to Harry, and it'd taken them a good week to work through it, to convince themselves that it wasn't just sex they were enjoying. 

Jake's been fucking Blaise for what? Two months, if that? But he's known how he's felt for a while. Maybe since that first night they'd spent together, deep down inside. He and Blaise fit together in ways Jake doesn't understand, but his heart does, fiercely, fully. He loves Blaise Zabini, and that love will probably be the thing that finally destroys him. Jake supposes he should care.

Maybe it's just the after-effects of Dee's spell. Of Jake holding Blaise steady while his granddad poked around in his mind, breaking the connection Luka Abadzhiev had sown. Except Jake doesn't really think that. He remembers watching Blaise sleep in St Mungo's, the night they'd brought him in for attacking Malfoy, remembers being fascinated by the planes of Blaise's face, by the whispers of _something_ he'd felt drift across Blaise's subconscious. It's why he'd agreed to help Dee. Because even before that night Jake had felt a pull towards Blaise. 

As if he were being called home.

God, Jake wants a drink. His mouth's dry; he could have knocked one back from the minibar in his hotel room, but he hadn't wanted to show up with liquor on his breath already. Graves notices those sorts of things. 

He feels movement beside him before he hears it, and he turns, catching the man's wrist just before it comes down on his shoulder. 

Tom Graves's mouth curves up into a faint smile. "Never could get the drop on you."

Jake lets Graves' hand go. He leans his ass against the wall, hoping it doesn't give way, and crosses his arms over his chest. His suit jacket pulls tight across his shoulders. Or Blaise's jacket does, actually. It's one Jake had pulled out from the back of the closet, tweaking it with tailoring charms to fit his breadth and size since Jake hasn't the means to replace his clothes properly. Besides, he'd grown up poor, started his working life with next to nothing, proper clothes included. Back in the early days after graduating Hit Wizard training, Jake had just enough money in his bank account to let him purchase a few cheap suits to wear at the few functions he wasn't expected to show up to dressed in uniform. He'd spent a good month practising his sewing charms, going down from his apartment in Midtown Atlanta on Saturday mornings to the wizarding tailor on the corner to learn them from Mr Johnson, ninety-four years old and still spry with his wand. Mr Johnson had died while Jake was in Afghanistan, and that's one of the regrets of Jake's life, that he hadn't had a chance to say goodbye properly to the old man. Jake likes to think every time he tapers a sleeve or adds a dart to a shirt that he's honouring Mr Johnson the way he'd best appreciate.

"Mel still all right with you being gone for the night?" Jake asks, and Graves looks out over the dusky city. He doesn't answer for a moment, and then he shrugs, shoves his hands in his pockets. His black suit's pressed and neat, perfectly fitted to his wide shoulders and narrow waist. A pale yellow pocket square matches his silk tie, and his quiffed hair's a dark, classy sweep back from his forehead. Jake's petty enough to be glad the bastard's grey hair is starting to spread out from his temples. Or he would be if it didn't give Tom a distinguished look. 

"She's worried," Graves says. He glances over at Jake. "But I think mostly she's upset about Phil and school." 

Jake just looks at him. "That doesn't sound like Mel." Sure, she's protective of her kids, but from Tom's tone of voice, Jake thinks there's more to it than just that.

Graves hesitates, then sighs. "Mike Wilkinson had MACUSA impound the Hamptons house and everything in it as so-called evidence of my treachery. Mel only found out because a friend of hers in the court system emailed her, and she's pissed. She spent years working on decorating that place." Graves' mouth tightens; Jake can feel the bristly edges of his fury. "It's not that I didn't expect that sort of shit, you know? But every goddamn person in New York knows Mel loves that house. It's been her sanctuary for years to get away from all the fucking politics when Sam's office got too hot, and I don't like that Wilkinson's trying to get to me through her."

"That's rough, man." Jake isn't certain what else to say. He knows Graves can't really be surprised by Wilkinson's machinations. It's not really anything Tom wouldn't have done in his place, Jake thinks, but he knows better than to acknowledge that out loud. Mel's in a different category for Graves. Fuck with her and he takes it a hell of a lot more personally. 

Which Wilkinson would damn well know. 

"One day I'm going to kill that fucker," Graves says, and he meets Jake's gaze. The vehemence in his eyes takes Jake aback. "Rip his goddamn gut out of his body with him still breathing."

"You don't mean that." But Jake thinks Tom might. 

Graves turns away, flattens his hands on the edge of the wall. "Maybe I don't," he says after a moment. 

Jake knows he'd feel the same if someone went after Blaise. It makes him uncomfortable. Uneasy. He looks back towards Bistro Jolie, bright and cheerful and bustling with dinner patrons already. Large globe lights are strung from its bright green awnings to the branches of the ancient oak halfway across the cobblestoned terrace, and half the wooden tables outside are filled. A flash of a red dress catches his eye, and he recognises Toni, standing at the edge of the throng on her tiptoes, her face pale olive in the fading light, her shiny black heels rising up from the uneven pavement, polished smooth by centuries of footsteps. She turns, and Jake waves at her, pushing himself off the wall. 

"Let's go," he says to Graves, and he doesn't wait for Tom to follow before he strides off, as if doing so might let him leave those troubling feelings behind. 

Jake doesn't want to think about them. Not right now. Not here.

"Hello, caro," Toni says when Jake leans in to kiss her cheek. She smells like expensive perfume and the faintest whiff of cigarettes. "I've asked for a quiet table in the back." She holds her hand out to Graves. "Thomas Graves. I've heard quite a great deal about you over the years. I'd say it's a pleasure to meet you, but I'm not certain that'd be entirely true."

Graves's fingers are huge around Toni's. "Ms Bucceri." He gives her that small, charming smile of his.

Toni eyes him for a moment, then says, perhaps a bit grudgingly," If you're a friend of Jake's, call me Toni." She raises a finger towards a passing waiter, who, in turn, gestures for her to come into the restaurant. "Come on, then."

"Likes to be in charge, does she?" Graves murmurs as she walks off, and Jake gives him a warning look. 

"Don't piss her off." Jake's seen what's left of men who set off Toni's temper. She's no patience for idiots who think themselves above her just because they have a dick attached to their body. "It's not pretty."

They follow Toni and the waiter into the bistro, slipping through the tight maze of tables and chairs, a multitude of conversations in French and German and English rising and falling around them as they move towards the back. The table the waiter stops at is near the kitchen--a terrible spot for being seen, Jake knows, but perfect if one would rather have one's discussion private. 

Jake holds a chair out for Toni; she smiles at him as she takes it. Graves sits across from her, Jake takes the place between them, his back to the wall. No one's at the tables near them, thank Christ. They take a moment to order: Toni requests a bottle of merlot before ordering a salade frisee aux lardons et oeuf poche and an onion soup; both Jake and Graves go for the steak frites. The waiter disappears, and Toni brushes her dark brown curls back behind one ear. 

"So." Toni leans forward, her elbows on the table. The look she gives Jake is frank. "The two of you are about to do something incredibly stupid, aren't you?" She rubs her fingertips absently over the swathe of collar bone that juts out above the boat-neck of her dress. 

"Perhaps." Graves unfolds his napkin, lays it across his lap. He looks over at her. "It's my understanding that you've been objecting to MACUSA's alleged participation in American No-Maj interrogations of suspected terrorists."

Toni snorts. "One might put it that way. Particularly given such interference not only goes against the International Statute of Secrecy but also against MACUSA's own historic refusal to interact with the No-Maj government in America, at least until recent events."

Graves leans back in his chair, nodding. "Fair point. But the events of 9/11 did change circumstances in that regard." His face goes grim. "It's a hell of a lot harder to stay apart from it all when something like that happens a block or two away." 

He and Jake exchange a look; they both remember that day, the ash and debris raining down onto the Manhattan streets as the towers collapsed, the screams and the silences, the way the bodies had fallen from the upper stories as people chose to jump to their deaths rather than to burn up in the flames. It's been five years, Jake realises in surprise. Five years this past week. Monday. The day he'd called Toni for this meeting, and Jake hadn't even thought about it. It's the first time September eleventh has passed, and Jake hadn't marked it in some way. Jake hates himself for not noticing, for forgetting. For being so caught up in his own troubles. 

"I know." Toni folds her hands on her lap, looks down at them. "My mother's from Brooklyn. I spent part of my childhood there, so I love the city." She glances back up at Graves. "But it doesn't mean that I'm willing to stand by when I suspect wizarding offences are being committed in extra-judicial prisons."

And Grave's mouth twitches at that. "Yeah. You were a real pain in my ass about that, let me tell you."

Toni's eyebrow goes up. "I hadn't realised my requests for information had even made it to your ass, Mr Graves." The waiter brings the bottle of merlot Toni'd asked for, leaning across the table to fill each of their glasses before setting it down beside Tom and stepping away. Toni sits forward again, reaches first for the bottle and moves it in front of her plate, then again for her wine glass. "Seeing that, over the years, I've been consistently stonewalled each time I've requested a meeting with MACUSA to discuss my concerns."

Graves laughs, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He glances over at Jake. "I like her."

"She's a good one." Jake picks up his own wine glass and takes a sip. It's decent enough, he thinks, and then he realises how spoilt he's become, living with Blaise. Toni can't afford to drop two hundred Galleons on a great bottle. Blaise has that sort of wine sitting on his kitchen counter. Yet another tick in the column for _this probably won't last_. Jake grew up barefoot in fucking backwoods Louisiana; Blaise has been raised into London's circle of wealth and privilege. Two more different worlds, Jake's never seen. 

Toni sets her glass down. "So tell me why we're here." Her dark brown eyes study both of them, shining shrewdly in the light from the lamp in the centre of the table. "You obviously want something from me." Toni's never played dumb, not even when doing so might get her further in her career. Jake appreciates that about her. 

Graves shifts in his chair, clears his throat. He's silent for a moment. Jake settles back, his wine glass cupped between his hands. This is Tom's rodeo. He calls the shots; he decides what gets said. Toni looks between them, waiting. Jake tilts his head towards Graves, and she nods. 

"I could give you evidence of those offences," Graves says finally. His thumb slides up and down the stem of his glass, and then he moves, his elbows pressed into the crisp white tablecloth as he folds his hands together in front of him. He studies her, and Jake knows he's taking stock, watching Toni to pick up every nuance of her response, from the slight widening of her eyes to the way her mouth purses the smallest smidgeon. He has her hooked; Jake doesn't need Legilimency to verify that. "Everything that you've ever wanted that would allow you to at least begin the censure process in front of the ICW."

"Oh." Toni falls back, her breath coming out in a soft huff. "Are we talking solid evidence?"

"When I say everything," Graves says evenly, "I mean everything. Documents, files, Pensieve memories collected from guards." Jake looks at him in surprise. He hadn't realised exactly what Tom had up his sleeve. Graves gives him a tight, guarded smile. "I've had my insurance policy ready for a while." Graves voice is low, bitter. "Those assholes want to play dirty? They don't want to know the shit Mel and I have on them after all these years."

Toni's silent, contemplating the swathe of snowy white tablecloth in front of her, and then she sighs, presses her knuckles to her red lips. "What do you want in return?" she asks after a moment.

Graves lifts his wine glass. "For you to do everything you possibly can from your end to embarrass and undermine the MACUSA government." 

"And what good will that do?" Toni gives him a sceptical look, and Jake has to agree. He'd thought Tom would want more than that. They'd talked about more. They'd talked about pushing for sanctions, about Luxembourg cutting off trade, about hitting Quahog's administration where it hurt: financially. "MACUSA just ignores the rest of the world and does whatever it wants to. My mother doesn't like admitting she's a citizen now, you know. Even living in Rome she finds it awkward."

"You do this part," Graves says, meeting her gaze, "and Durant and I will do the rest."

Jake doesn't like the sound of that. "Tom, what the hell do you have planned?" He leans forward, his fingers tightening around his wine glass. "This isn't what we discussed."

Graves just shakes his head. "All in good time. But you should know I've already got support from Shacklebolt--"

"Kingsley Shacklebolt?" Toni's brow furrows. She looks between them. "I'm not so certain I'd count on that lasting."

Something in the way she says that makes Jake sit up, a prickle going down his spine. "Why?"

Toni bites her lip; a bit of her crimson lipstick comes off on her teeth. "You haven't heard then." She shakes her head. "But you wouldn't have, would you?" It's almost as if she's speaking to herself. "I only heard on my way out of the office, coming over here." Toni looks back up, and her face is scored with worry. "The British Wizengamot just recorded a nearly unanimous no-confidence vote in Shacklebolt's administration. The whole of the ICW's buzzing about it. The question's now whether Shacklebolt will stave it off or if the Brits will call a general election next week."

Jake frowns. "A no-confidence vote? In Shacklebolt?" He looks over at Graves. "Is that like our impeachment process?" He's heard of these happening, but he's never really paid attention to the talk. Jake's not so much interested in the behind-the-scenes of politics; he's always cared more about how magical law enforcement could work across national boundaries and cultures. 

Graves' face is grim. "Mostly." He picks his glass up, watches as the wine swirls against the side. His gaze flicks towards Jake. "As I understand it, the Brits have two weeks to either form a new administration that's supported by a confidence vote or open the whole damn Wizengamot up to an election." He looks over at Toni. "Correct?"

"Something like that." Toni looks between them. "But these sorts of things almost always end up with the current government being booted out of office." She hesitates, then adds, "My guess is that whomever can get the best press support will have the advantage."

"Fair guess." Graves' frown deepens. "Who's behind the push to oust him?"

"Ernest Hawkworth and Griselda Marchbanks is what I've heard," Toni says. She twists a gold bangle around her narrow wrist as she leans back in her chair. She crosses one leg over the other; her shoe hits lightly against Jake's calf. "Sorry." 

Jake just shakes his head; he's barely even noticed the scrape of her heel. "They're the two behind the Death Eater Registry," he says. Blaise has been furious about that for weeks, and with good cause. If they're forcing Death Eaters to register with the government, Jake's fairly damn certain they're going to want Barachiel Dee's grandson to put his name down as well. He drains half his glass, then reaches across the table for the bottle, filling it up again. "What's the scuttlebutt?" he asks Toni. "Does the ICW think Shacklebolt will survive?"

"I don't know." Toni frowns. "There weren't many votes in his favour from what I've heard. Only five in in total out of the entire Wizengamot, but one was from the Chief Warlock who might be able to drum up some support this weekend before Monday's session, so who knows how it'll play out in the end. Doesn't mean Shacklebolt can't come back from it, but…" With an uneasy shrug, she lets the word hang in the air. They all know what that means. The chances of Shacklebolt staying Minister are slim to none. 

Jake looks over at Graves. "That changes things." They'd been counting on a strong British government willing to support them against MACUSA. If the Ministry's scrambling to reorder itself, as well as tussling with Luxembourg, that leaves him and Tom dangling out there on their own. 

Graves is silent. He rubs his hands over his face, pressing his fingertips against his mouth. Jake recognises that look. Frustration, fury, fatigue, all combined into one agonised twist of lips, furrow of brows. He exhales, heavy and harsh, before he drops his hand, his forearm resting on the table. His wedding ring glints from his finger; he taps his thumb against the tablecloth. "It makes it more difficult to bring Quahog down," he says finally, and he glances up at Jake. "But not impossible. All we need is a strong supporter. Babajide Akingbade, perhaps." His gaze swings over to Toni. "He's not a fan of MACUSA's either."

"The Supreme Mugwump?" Toni shakes her head. "No, but that's asking a lot of him. There are members of the ICW who believe MACUSA has a right to defend itself however it feels best in this day and age. More even than might be willing to admit it outright, and Akingbade's not a fool. Undermining another wizarding government would be bad optics at best for him. More likely a complete disaster." She worries her lip between her teeth. "You're really going to try to go after Quahog?"

Jake nods as Graves reaches for his wine glass again. "We haven't got much of a choice." He leans his elbows on the edge of the table. Considers how much to tell her. He's fairly certain he can trust Toni, and the part of him that isn't will just have to get over itself. "You know Aldric Yaxley?"

It takes Toni a moment of puzzling over the name, and then she nods slowly. "Businessman, right?" The wrinkle between her brows deepens. "My office has had labour complaints about him. Some of his warehouses and facilities in the States supposedly employ foreign witches and wizards at less than living wages, if I recall correctly. But legally that's a MACUSA matter, not one that falls in the ICW purview, so…" She looks regretful, almost guilty, but she's right. Jake knows the MACUSA Aurors ought to have been looking into that sort of thing. But no one had touched Yaxley, or even suggested he had the slightest involvement in anything untoward. Even if they'd all suspected it at one time or another. 

"Hey," Jake says, gently. "There's only so much your tiny office can do, yeah?"

Toni doesn't look convinced, but she reaches over, squeezes his hand before pulling away. She picks up her wine glass, looks at Jake over the rim.. "Tell me what Yaxley has to do with this, caro."

"Bastard's running the show," Graves before Jake can reply. He hooks a finger in the knot of his tie and loosens it ever so slightly. It's a nervous tic of his that Jake recognises from their time at MACUSA, and he doesn't know whether to be relieved or alarmed that Graves seems apprehensive about this particular discussion. "Yaxley has Quahog in his pocket. Financially, morally, every way you might think, really. I don't know what he has on Sam, but there's enough there to make the president of MACUSA his little puppet, dancing around to whatever string Yaxley wants to pull." His nostrils flare in disgust. "He's making a mockery out of our democratic principles, using all of this to feather his own nest--"

Jake interrupts. "It's unconstitutional, but not necessarily uncommon. Plenty of MACUSA politicians have been funded by outside interests or lobbying groups." Jake doesn't want to point out that there's no way Mel Graves, as Quahog's chief of staff, wouldn't have at least suspected Yaxley's involvement. Just like the rest of them, Jake included, she and Tom had looked the other way until it'd become impossible not to. Graves had kissed Yaxley's ass plenty of times when he'd just thought the man was Quahog's benefactor. It'd only been when they'd realised how corrupt it'd all become that Tom's morals had gotten offended. No use in saying that, though. It wouldn't do any good. So Jake just rubs behind his ear and adds, "We know Yaxley has ties both to organised crime in the States as well as to a primarily British terrorist organisation that we think is still at work through Europe." At Toni's raised eyebrow, Jake sighs. "The Death Eaters."

Toni presses her tongue against her teeth, makes a soft snicking sound. "Antonin Dolohov and Rodolphus Lestrange." She shakes her head, sets her glass of wine aside. "Dolohov's been in Brussels for the past three weeks. His solicitor's been trying to get me to take on his case, saying his client's not safe in ICW custody."

"Lucius Malfoy wasn't," Jake says, his voice quiet. "Look what happened to him." He rests his elbows on the table, props his chin on one fist as he considers, his other thumb tracing around the base of his wine glass. "So really, Dolohov might have a point."

"Maybe." Toni doesn't seem convinced. She's silent as the waiter returns with their food, leaning back as he sets her plate down. She smiles up at him, waits until he steps away before she picks up her fork and knife, cutting into her salad thoughtfully. "So what you're trying to tell me is that you think Aldric Yaxley is the mastermind behind not only recent events in Britain but also the two of you being trounced out of the States?" One perfectly groomed eyebrow goes up, and Jake feels a bit foolish. 

Graves snorts. "It's not that outrageous," he says through a mouthful of steak.

Toni slices into the poached egg on top of her salad. The yolk bursts, a heavy, thick yellow that oozes onto the deep green of the greens around it. "Perhaps not," she says after a moment. "But it's a hard sell, you have to admit that." She looks up at them from beneath dark lashes, her eyes outlined in thick, coal-black strokes that make them seem wider and brighter. "And the ICW's been torn about how to handle the British question as it is. If I start suggesting that a businessman is controlling the political machinations of not one but two countries…" She trails off, her face uncertain. 

"I know it's a big ask," Jake says. And it is. They're telling Toni she should put her reputation on the line with an organisation that, while it may pay her salary, will never trust her. Not entirely. No one ever likes the witches and wizards who are meant to be the safeguards, who watch to make sure laws aren't being bent, morals aren't being compromised. Power corrupts, at all manner of levels, from the lowest to the highest, and it's always the ones who pay witness to that dishonesty who are hated the most. 

After a moment Toni nods and sets her fork and knife down. She looks at Jake, her gaze searching his face. "You really think this is what's happening."

"Yes," Jake says, and his voice feels rough and raw in the back of his throat. He doesn't look away from her. "I honestly do." He can feel the uneven pulse in his throat, the tension that coils between his shoulder blades. He wishes he didn't believe any of this. Wishes the fear that twists his belly every day would go away. But it won't, and he does, and someone has to stop Yaxley before something goes too far. He lets Toni see this, lets her feel the uneasy wash of foreboding that he lives with from moment to moment. He doesn't look away. He can't.

"Cazzo," Toni breathes out. The silence between the three of them stretches out, until Toni shakes her head and says, "Jacob, this game you're playing is complicated. One misstep, and the two of you…" She draws a glossy red fingernail across her throat. Her eyes are worried, her mouth tugging down into an unhappy frown. "And you want me involved?" She sighs again, leans back in her chair, a troubled expression scoring her sallow face. 

Neither Jake nor Graves say anything. Jake toys with his frites, pressing the tines of his fork against the fried potatoes until they break, the crisp surface splitting into soft, creamy fluff. He wishes he had some ketchup, maybe a bit of seasoned salt. Something all-American, he thinks, and a well of grief bubbles up unexpectedly inside of him. He wants to go home. Back to Brooklyn and his apartment. Back to the job he loved as much as he hated. Anywhere but here, where his life feels so tangled up in the past and the present and he's no fucking idea what the future holds. 

Or if there'll be a future at all. 

"We'll find another way," Jake says finally, and he feels Graves tense beside him. He looks over at Tom, his gaze even. "No one else has to do this but us, man."

Graves looks as if he wants to object, but instead he just nods. 

Toni glances between them. "I never said I wouldn't help." She holds up a hand when Jake starts to protest. "I'm just making certain we all know what's on the line here. You're not just undermining an administration, Jacob. You're trying to do something that's going to anger some very powerful men--and perhaps a few powerful women in the process. I'm not a coward and I'm not afraid to ruffle a few feathers if need be, but I'm also not going to go traipsing about like I've no idea what's in play." She studies Jake. "I trust you." Her gaze flicks towards Graves. "This one I'm not so certain about, but I'll hold my judgment for now."

"So you'll help?" Graves' voice is amused. Thank Christ. 

"On one condition." Toni picks her fork and knife back up again. She spears a bit of egg, a twist of lettuce, lifts them up to her mouth. She chews slowly. Swallows. Jake knows she's doing it on purpose, that she's making a point here to both him and Graves. She's in charge. Not them. Jake respects her for that. "You want my help, then we do this my way. Which means no flash theatrics, no dramatic demands. I want evidence. I want details I can bring to the ICW, ones that support your claim. And not just one or two. If you want me to make a case for you, I need to know what Aldric Yaxley's doing, and how he's influencing not only Quahog's administration but the international community as well. Can you get that for me?"

Jake looks over at Graves, who nods curtly. "Yeah," Jake says after a moment. "Maybe we can." He doesn't dare add what he's thinking. _Fuck if I know how._

He wishes this felt like some sort of victory. Instead, his hand shakes as he lifts his fork, as he takes a bite of steak. It's nearly tasteless on his tongue, through no fault of the chef's. Jake's just not hungry. Not any more, at least. He knows Toni's right. If they so much as feint the wrong way, they're done for. 

After all, treason's one hell of a deadly sport.

***

"Hello," Harry calls out as he steps through the Floo. It's just gone past seven in the evening, and he's tired, worn out from the emotional turmoil of the past few hours.

A small, sturdy body slams into him, nearly chucking Harry back into the Floo. "Uncle Harry," Teddy shouts into Harry's rumpled jacket. "I missed you." The Crups are on his heels, barking like mad, although they keep their distance.

"Careful there." Harry steadies himself against the mantel and ruffles Teddy's bright blue hair. He eyes the Crups warily, one booted foot ready to push them back if need be.

"Enough of that," Andromeda says from the doorway. "Cronus, you little pest, stop working your brothers up." She's drying her hands on a faded tea towel from Brighton Pier; her feet are bare, and she's wearing yoga pants and a loose leaf-green jumper, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. 

With a soft whimper, Cronus plops down on the rug, his bum lifted slightly in the air, his eyes still following Harry, whilst Crius and Coeus curl up beneath one of the armchairs.  
"Awful creature," Harry says to Cronus, but the Crup just wriggles his tail.

"They're not so bad." Teddy grins up at him. "Except when Crius gets into the kitchen bin and farts--"

Andromeda winces. "Passes wind, Teddy." She brushes a lock of hair back from her cheek.

"But you said he farted just yesterday," Teddy protests, and his grandmother gives him an exasperated look. Teddy frowns at her. "But you did."

"That's enough from you too, Edward, I'd say." But Andromeda's smiling at Teddy, who just wrinkles his nose. 

"Don't call me that, Nan." 

Andromeda laughs, shaking her head. She glances Harry's way. "Between the Crups fighting and Teddy starting up school again it's been complete chaos around here in recent days."

It's been too long since he's stopped by, Harry realises in surprise. Even when he'd been living in Luxembourg, he'd made the effort to pop over for dinner once every week or so. He looks around the comfortable quiet of Andromeda's sitting room. It's the same simple, cosy elegance as it's always been, but now there are touches of Narcissa scattered throughout. Books on formal gardening and sixteenth century magical porcelain set aside on the coffee table that Harry's certain don't belong to Andromeda. Photographs of Narcissa with Draco, both as a young boy and from just a few months past, Harry'd say, given the length of Draco's hair, tumbling loose around his pointed jaw. His heart squeezes, so sharp and quick that it takes his breath away. 

Andromeda leans in to kiss Harry's cheek. "How are you, love?" She doesn't wait for an answer. "We'd have waited dinner for you if we'd known you were coming over." 

Harry winces, another twinge of guilt going through him. He ought to have firecalled, but he hadn't had a chance. He'd been in the incident room since the Wizengamot had tossed him out, and he'd lost track of time. He takes a deep breath, smoothes Teddy's fringe back from his forehead. 

"We found him," Harry says after a moment. "Draco." 

Andromeda just looks at Harry before a small, soft sound comes from her and she closes her eyes, sways just a bit. Harry isn't certain she's not going to collapse.

He takes a step forward, reaching out to steady her. "Andy?" 

Andromeda clutches the tea towel to her chest. "I'm fine." She looks at Harry, her pale face even paler than usual. "Please tell me he's not--" She presses her lips together, biting off the word as her gaze flicks down to Teddy. He's still molded to Harry's side, his fist clenching the back of Harry's shirt. Teddy's eyes are wide and uncertain, and Harry lets his his hand settle against Teddy's shoulder, stroking it lightly. 

"He's alive," Harry says, his voice quiet, and Andromeda makes that noise again, fainter this time. And then she's turning, calling out for her sister as she runs from the room. 

Teddy pulls on Harry's shirt. "Is it Cousin Draco?" His voice wavers a bit, and Harry wonders what it's been like for him to be here in this house with his great-aunt's worry and grief. He knows Narcissa's been keeping the stiff upper lip of her generation, but even she can't be calm and collected all of the time. Not with everything she's gone through this summer. Losing her husband, having her son disappear. She's strong, but there's only so much one woman can bear, and Harry's certain that, whilst she's been hiding her grief from him, some form of it has to have seeped out here, in the privacy of her sister's home.

Harry takes Teddy's hand. "He's all right." For now, at least, but there's no sense worrying Teddy with that. "I talked to him today." That still feels surreal; there are moments Harry's not half-certain he dreamed it. If it weren't for the log of the call coming through on his mobile, he'd think he truly had.

"Aunt Cissy cries some nights," Teddy says, his forehead puckering. His fingers are tight around Harry's. "She doesn't think I know, but I can hear her from my room." He chews on his lip, looks up at Harry. "Nan says it's like how she still cries sometimes when she misses Mum."

"It's something like that." Harry's throat hurts. "It's all right to cry when you're worried about someone." Christ knows Harry's being doing it most nights. "Or you miss them."

Footsteps in the doorway pull his attention from Teddy. Narcissa's there, her face pale, her silver-gilt hair pulled back into a loose knot at the nape of her neck. She's in a plain blue dress, one that looks as if it's from one of those old black-and-white comedies the Beeb plays on off-hours, nipped in at the waist, the skirt billowing out around her as she draws to a stop, looking at Harry. Andromeda's behind her, so different from her sister, and yet so alike. 

"Draco," is all Narcissa can get out before her voice breaks. 

Harry takes a step forward. "I spoke to him," he says, and then Narcissa's in his arms, drawing in a ragged, uneven breath. Harry thinks of the night she came to him, held him on the sofa as he sobbed his own grief out, and he pulls her a bit closer, wraps his arms a bit tighter around her slender frame. It's the least he can do, returning the kindness she'd shown to him. She shudders against him as he smoothes a hand down her back. "He's all right," he whispers. "He's alive."

Narcissa nods against Harry's shoulder, and he can feel the relief in the sag of her body into his. "Thank Merlin," she says, her voice a soft huff into his shirt. She pulls back, and her eyes are wet. She presses a hand to her throat, her fingers long and slim like her son's, splayed against skin so translucent Harry can see the faint blue of her veins. Her cheeks are flushed as she steps back, sinks into the sofa behind her. She looks up at Harry. "Where is he?"

"Oudepoort Prison." Harry sits beside her. Teddy crawls up next to him, still pressed against Harry's side. Andromeda takes the armchair. She's still clutching the tea towel, twisting it between her fingers. "In the States." He watches as a spasm of fear twitches across Narcissa's face. "He's alive," Harry says again. "And we've found him in the system. They've hidden him away as a John Doe."

He doesn't tell her that he and Zabini had spent an hour bent over Zabini's mobile, Hermione and Parkinson sat across from them nervously, all of them listening on speaker as Alma Espinoza had tried to locate Draco's prisoner number from her terminal in the MACUSA network. Or that the bastards at MACUSA--Wilkinson, Harry's certain--had hidden Draco so completely that Alma'd had to call Martine Boucher in because Martine had a higher security clearance. Or that they're not certain they didn't hit a flag somewhere in the record when it finally came up, one that might trigger Draco being moved to another facility and bring repercussions to Martine's door. Or that there'd been almost nothing in the file, except for a note in it stating that the prisoner refused all medical treatment on religious grounds--what Alma had called a bullshit excuse if she'd ever seen one. Harry agrees. Martine had tried to modify the record, but it'd been locked down into read-only mode, restricted to the Oudepoort guards and high-level security clearance at MACUSA. 

None of that matters to Narcissa. Not right now. 

Harry reaches over, curls his fingers around hers. Narcissa's skin is warm, dry. "We're going to get him back," Harry says quietly. He doesn't know how. Croaker had rung Hermione up with the news just forty minutes ago that the Wizengamot had voted, nearly unanimously, to oust Kingsley as Minister. Harry can't think of that right now, of what it'll mean for Draco. For any of them. 

It's enough that they've found him, that Harry finally knows where Draco is. That after all these weeks he can fucking do something.

Not that Harry can go to him. Even if there were the slightest chance of him being able to walk into Oudepoort without being thrown into an Incarcerous the moment he stepped foot inside, Harry still can't leave the country. None of Seven-Four-Alpha can. Not and keep their jobs, at least. Even Hermione's not certain she can pull strings for herself, but she's going to try, if Croaker will let her. Draco's one of theirs, after all. And Zabini had said he might have a few contacts he could put into use, although he'd looked grim at the time. Harry hadn't asked for more details, and Zabini hadn't offered. At this point, Harry doesn't give a damn what subterfuges they have to engage in to get Draco out of that sodding prison. He'll break goddamned international law if he has to. Hermione hadn't been happy when he'd said that. Parkinson had cheered him on. 

"Thank you, Harry," Narcissa says, but she pulls back, her face wan and drawn. "It's just…" She hesitates, then shakes her head. 

Andromeda exchanges a long look with Narcissa, one Harry can't quite decipher. She stands up, holds out a hand to Teddy. "Upstairs with you," she says, crooking her fingers at him. "The adults need to talk."

For a moment, Harry thinks Teddy's going to object, but then Teddy nods, his lip between his teeth, and he slides off the sofa, his bare feet landing on the wooden floor with a soft thunk. The Crups all look up, and Cronus stretches, pushing himself to his feet. Teddy stops just long enough to give Harry a half-hearted hug, one arm slung over Harry's shoulder, and then, with a soft, warning _Edward_ from Andromeda, Teddy skulks out of the room, his shoulders slumped. All three of the Crups trot after him, their forked tails wagging. Andromeda watches them go, a furrow between her brows, and she sighs when Teddy's stomps fade up the stairs, followed by the soft thumps and scratches of the Crups at his heels.

"They do love him." Narcissa's voice is soft. "Almost as much as they loved Lucius." 

Andromeda's just looking towards the sitting room door. "He's good with them," she murmurs. "They need attention, just like him. Poor lad's had a rough time of it lately/" 

Narcissa reaches out, takes her sister's hand, squeezing it lightly before she lets it go. "It's my fault--"

"Don't be ridiculous, Cissy." Andromeda gives her an even look. "You didn't ask for any of this."

Her sister worries her lip between her teeth. "It can't be enjoyable for him, living with an old woman who can't--" She breaks off, looks across the room. Swallows. Harry sees a bit of wetness seeping from the corner of her eye before she wipes it away with her thumb. "Oh, don't bother with me. I'm just a mess, aren't I?" 

"So am I," Harry says, and when Narcissa looks back over at him, he gives her a wan smile. "At least you haven't been drowning yourself in bottles of whisky." 

Narcissa just huffs a soft laugh. "I wouldn't say that before you check how quickly the sherry bottle's gone down, darling." But she reaches over and touches Harry's cheek ever so lightly before pulling her hand back. "Thank you."

They're all silent for a moment. Harry can hear the faint tick of the clock on the mantel, the soft rumble of traffic from the street outside. 

And then Andromeda sighs.. "They're going to boot Kingsley out of office, aren't they?" 

Harry's eyebrows go up in surprise. "Where'd you hear that?" 

"The WWN's been speculating," Narcissa says quietly. "They broke into Tilden Toots' gardening programme this evening." She smoothes a wrinkle from the wide circle of her skirt, its folds falling neatly on either side of her knees, angled towards Harry on the sofa. Her posture is primly perfect, even more so than her sister's. Harry knows their parents drilled it into them because he's teased Draco in the past about the way he holds himself so properly. Draco'd laughed and told him it was a point of pride in the Black family. His mother had insisted upon it with him, same as her mother with her and her grandmother before that. Narcissa looks up, meets Harry's gaze. "They seem to think Mr Shacklebolt will be ousted in the end."

Harry wants to shake his head, tell them everything will be fine. But he can't. He doesn't know that it will, and they deserve the truth. "I don't know," he says, finally, looking down at his hands clasped between his thighs. Harry pulls at a hangnail. The thin strip of skin separates from his thumb, revealing the pink flesh beneath. It stings; Harry rubs away the little bit of blood that wells up over it. He glances back up at Narcissa. "Probably." He clears his throat and adds, "They've cast a no-confidence vote. It's not easy to come back from that." 

Almost impossible in fact. The few times it has, the no-confidence vote had been far from the landslide it'd been today. 

Narcissa's intake of breath is sharp. She turns her head, her arms folded tightly across her chest. She doesn't say anything. 

"My God." Andromeda rises, walks over to gaze out the window that overlooks the street. She's still holding the tea towel, wadded tightly in one hand. The streetlamps are a warm, golden glow across the pavement outside; their light casts a shadow over Andromeda's high cheekbones. "What does that mean for the Registry?" she asks finally, glancing over at Harry. "Kingsley was one of the few people in the Ministry speaking out against it."

"I don't know," Harry says again, but at Andromeda's steady look, he sighs. "It makes it easier to pass if Kingsley's out of play." Which is partly behind Marchbanks' grab for power, Harry thinks. That and the fact that she's just, all in all, a wretched cow. 

Although there's something in him that didn't like the look of Ernest Hawkworth today either. He's a quiet one, Hawkworth, and everyone assumes Marchbanks is leading this charge, but Harry's not so certain that Hawkworth isn't just as heavily involved. The general assumption about Hawkworth is that he's a milquetoast, lead about by the far more vocal Marchbanks. That's not necessarily true, Harry's starting to think. Not after the way Hawkworth had gone after him today.

"I'm less concerned about the Registry," Narcissa says after a moment. She looks up at her sister, then over at Harry. "If that horrible woman rises to office, what's going to happen to Draco?" Her hand trembles as she brushes a loose wisp of hair back from her temple. "If the Americans have imprisoned him--" Her voice breaks; she swallows, looks away, draws in a deep breath before going on, a bit unsteadily. "If that's the case, who'll fight them for him?"

And that's the question Harry's been asking himself all evening. He'd held a whisper of hope whilst the vote was going on that the Wizengamot wouldn't be that bloody stupid, but that's all gone now, isn't it? The joy he'd had at hearing Draco's voice, at knowing Draco was alive, at finding out where he was, all of it's dissipating in the reality of this evening's events. 

Narcissa's not a fool. They all know full well what'll happen without Kingsley at the Ministry's helm. Any pressure to work for Draco's release will be gone. The optics of pushing for the transatlantic release of a known Death Eater, former or not, would be terrible for a Wizengamot considering enacting the Registry. Besides Harry's just managed to nark off Marchbanks by speaking publicly against her. He's damned sure her earlier offer of assistance in locating Draco is now officially rescinded. Not that Harry'd believed in it anyway. Deals made with the devil never truly come to fruition. 

But still. They'll have nothing now. Not with the threat of the Registry breathing down their necks. The last thing Marchbanks and her lot would want to do is anger MACUSA for someone they've written off as nothing more than a bastard Death Eater. 

"Cissy," Andromeda says softly, turning away from the window. "You know Harry will fight."

Harry nods, and he reaches over, lays his hand over Narcissa's. "I will."

Narcissa nods, but she doesn't look at Harry. She's silent for a moment, then she sighs. "I know," she says, her voice soft, "that our family's actions in the two wars were unconscionable. I shan't make excuses for us. We believed things that were…" She bites her lip, her teeth making deep dents in the pale pink skin. "They were awful," she says finally. "And wrong." She swallows, and when she looks up, her eyes are wet. "And our bigotry cost us. Rather dearly in the end." She pulls her hand out from beneath Harry's, wipes her thumb beneath one eye. "I am not in any way justifying what my husband did, what my son did, what I did. We hurt people." Her gaze slides over to her sister. "People died because of us. And I will go to my grave with that haunting me." 

"Cissy," Andromeda says again, her voice thick, but her sister holds up her hand.

"I am not the woman I was eight years ago," Narcissa says, and the tears spill over her lashes now, slip down her cheeks. "Draco is not that boy either. We've changed. And I know nothing will ever truly pay for what we did, what we helped to cause in this country, but I can't--" She breaks off, looks away. Presses her knuckles to her mouth as she breathes out, then back in again, her thin shoulders shaking. "I can't lose my son," she whispers.

Andromeda's beside her then, sitting on the arm of the sofa, pulling her sister against her side, stroking her hair. "I know," she whispers, her dark head bent over Narcissa's pale hair. "You won't." Andromeda looks up at Harry. "We won't let that happen, Cissy. I promise."

Harry's throat aches. He shifts closer to Narcissa, his thigh pressed against hers. Awkwardly, uncertainly, he slips an arm around her, around this woman who'd once saved his life only out of fear for her son. Harry envies Draco this, growing up with a mother who loves him so deeply, so fully. A mother who would betray everything her family purportedly held dear to make certain her son was still alive. Harry's mother gave her life for him, but Harry knows he'd rather have had her with him, rather have had the chance to get to know her, to love her. Not her memory. 

A decade ago, Harry had thought Narcissa Malfoy cold. Arrogant. An awful woman who'd raised an awful prat of a boy, who'd gone about life looking down at everyone as if she smelt dung on their shoes. He'd hated her, hated her husband. Hated Draco. And now Harry's sat here, comforting Narcissa in ways he would never have thought possible during the war. He'd have laughed at the thought, considered it madness that his life could be so entwined with hers now. That she could care for him, consider him family, be a mum to him, just because he loves her son. 

This is why Harry hates the idea of the Registry. Because it doesn't allow for people changing, for their beliefs shifting, for them struggling, fighting to become different people than who've they've been in the past. The way Narcissa and Draco have. Neither of them are perfect. Harry's seen the same old arrogance in them both rise to the surface. But he's also seen them push it away. Not give in to it. And Harry wonders if he could have done the same in their shoes. 

Something in Harry cracks open, something deep and raw and fiercely protective. He lays his head against Narcissa's shoulder, feeling the delicate strength of her, a strength that Harry's not certain she knows she has at the moment. He knows why Draco would do anything for his mother, even as exasperated as he can get at times. She's still his family. Still his mother. 

"I'm going to bring him back," Harry says, his voice rasping against his throat. He can feel Narcissa tremble a bit against him as she breathes in. He pulls back, looking between her and Andromeda. "And fuck the Wizengamot. I won't let anything happen to any of you." 

Narcissa touches his face again. "Beautiful boy," she says, and the smile she gives him is small and weary. "I know you mean well--"

Harry catches her hand. Slides his fingers between hers. Holds them against his cheek. "I promise you," he says roughly. "I promise you that your family is mine now, and I will do everything I can to protect each one of you." His gaze holds Narcissa's; her mouth opens slightly, but she stays silent. "Whatever may happen. Those bastards won't hurt any of you."

And Harry can feel the flutter of his magic against his skin, knows that it's heard him, that it agrees. Harry doesn't quite know how he'll do it. Not with the Registry coming. Not with Draco trapped in Oudepoort, an entire ocean between them. But he'll find a way. 

Narcissa looks at him, then nods. "Thank you, Harry," she says, her voice soft. She leans in, kisses Harry's cheek. She smells sweetly powdery, like lilacs and freshly baked frangipane tart on a summer's day. A calm warmth seeps through Harry. 

This is his family, after all. As small and broken as it might be. And Harry'll do whatever it takes to keep them safe. 

Even if it means defying the whole of his government in the process.

***

Blaise doesn't even bother to look up when the stool next to him slides out. A familiar black handbag, Birkin circa Hermès 1999, settles on the marble bar of the Fumoir at Claridge's, and the leather of the stool creaks beneath his mother's thighs as she settles onto it.

"You look like hell, darling." Olivia motions towards the bartender. "A sidecar, please, and don't skimp on the cognac."

Blaise knocks back his whisky, setting the empty glass down. "Another for me, as well," he says before the bartender walks away. He drags his tongue along the curve of his bottom lip, licking the last drops away, then glances over at Olivia. "Hello, Mother."

Olivia looks impeccable, as always, in her tidy black suit, her white silk shell pristine beneath her jacket. She studies him, and Blaise is all too aware of his rumpled tie, his shirt that needs pressing. He doesn't care. It's been a fucking hell of a day. "What's so important," his mother says, "that you felt the need to ring me up in the middle of a private dinner?" She sounds a bit perturbed, Blaise thinks, but he doesn't give a damn. "I was in Paris with friends, darling, and it was terribly awkward making my excuses. I had to admit my grown son was in need of me."

And Blaise knows how much Olivia hates telling men in particular of his existence until she has to, much less acknowledge that she's old enough to have birthed him twenty-six years ago, which means this dinner with friends was far more likely a date. "Sorry," he says, but he doesn't really mean it. He's tired, and his heart aches far too much to put up with his mother's rubbish tonight. 

She seems to realise this rather quickly. "Blaise," she says, and there's a softness to her voice as she leans towards him. "What's wrong?"

What isn't? Blaise wants to laugh, wants to throw his hands up, wants to tell his mother exactly how buggered up his life has become as of late. Instead he just takes the whisky that the bartender slides over to him, lifts it to his mouth. It's his third, he thinks. Or perhaps fourth. He hasn't really been counting. 

Blaise turns on his stool, looks around the Fumoir. It's a small bar, all dark wood and expensive leather, tucked away in the art deco beauty of Claridge's Hotel. He'd chosen it partially because he knows it's a favourite of his mother's and partially because it's not the best known bar in Muggle London. And besides, at half-nine on a Friday night it's far less crowded than most other places Blaise knows. The Fumoir's far too stodgy for the younger crowd out to pull, and the older folk are likely still at the theater or whatever the hell it is they like to indulge in to start their weekends. 

Merlin, but Blaise might have had a bit more whiskey than he'd thought.

"Are you and your boy arguing again?" 

His mother's question annoys him. "No," he says curtly, but he's not entirely certain that's true. He's no intention, however, of telling his mother anything about Jake. Of admitting what Jake had said to him this morning. _Fuck._ What's he going to do about that when Jake comes back tomorrow?

Blaise sets his glass back down on the small, horseshoe bar. The bartender's stepped away, mixing his mother's drink. Blaise studies the length of the man's back, lean and elegant in his black vest that tapers down to well-tailored black trousers. Broad shoulders. Nice arse. Blaise thinks about what it'd be like to have the man beneath him, his cock buried deep between those perfect arsecheeks. It's half-tempting to consider lingering in the bar until last call, taking the man upstairs to a room and shagging the life out of him until Blaise can't feel anything but the simple pleasure of sex. 

Except that doesn't sound as appealing as it might have a few months past. Or ever, really. Blaise tilts his glass between his fingers, watching as the whisky swirls against the sides.

His mother's hand settles on his shoulder, her long, squared-off nails polished a rosy beige. "Darling," she says softly. "Talk to me."

Blaise lifts his whisky, takes another sip. It's warm and sour against his tongue. "Potter found Draco," he says after a moment. He wonders idly if that's really the best way to put it, given that Draco rang up Potter, after all. There wasn't anything that the guv actually did, was there? He'd just answered his bloody mobile. 

And perhaps Blaise is angry about that in his own way. He's known Draco for years, stood by the prat on his worst days. But it hadn't been Blaise that Draco had called. Blaise sets his glass back down with an irritated clink against the polished marble of the bar. He knows he's no right to be put out by that. Of course Draco ought to have called the guv. But it's just another way Blaise can feel the distance growing between all of them. Pansy's off faffing about with Whitaker, playing happy nursemaid or some such rot. Draco's so caught up with Potter that it's him he reaches out to first. And then there's Blaise, trying to figure out what it means that Jake Durant's telling him he loves him on his way out the bloody Floo. 

Christ, they're all mental. The whole sodding lot of them. 

His mother's fingers stroke across his back, circling lightly over the wrinkled cotton of his shirt. She waits, her head tilted towards Blaise, her gaze searching his face. 

Blaise wants to throw his glass across the bar. Instead, he clutches it, his fingers tightening around its smooth surface as the bartender sets his mother's cocktail in front of her. She barely notices; all her attention is focussed on Blaise. He's forgotten what that feels like, how powerful it is, how much he'd craved it as a boy. All his life he's only wanted to make Olivia proud of him. Blaise doesn't think he's managed. Not in recent years at least. He draws in a slow breath, then exhales again, turning his head to look at her. "He's in Oudepoort. Draco. He's being held as a John Doe."

"Oh." Olivia's voice is low. 

He's glad he doesn't need to explain to her what Oudepoort is. Blaise wonders if Draco's encountered Jake's father there yet. If that's even possible. If Draco's being held in the general population or by himself. If they have met, have they spoken about Christopher Zabini? But that's a ridiculous thought. Why would they? After all these years, Blaise is the only one who cares about what happened that night to his father. Even his mother's tried to forget. 

Merlin, but he's in a morose mood tonight, isn't he? Blaise pinches the bridge of his nose. He's had too much to drink. 

They sit in silence until Olivia picks up her drink, turns towards Blaise. "Come with me," she says, and she slips off the stool, reaching back for her Birkin. Blaise hesitates, and then he follows, his whisky in hand, as his mother leads him away from the bar and over to one of the small tables along the side of the room. The tabletop gleams darkly in the shadows of the sconces on the wall, a flickering light dancing across its smooth surface from the votive candle in the table's centre. Olivia slides into the leather banquette, sets her bag beside her. She takes a sip of her sidecar as Blaise pulls out the chair across from her, dropping down into it with a sigh. 

"Well," Olivia says finally. "Does Narcissa know?"

"Potter was going over tonight to tell her," Blaise says. Yet another duty Blaise resents going to the guv. He and Pans have known Draco's mother longer. One of them ought to have told her, but even as he thinks it, he knows he's wrong. Blaise can't seem to help himself, though. Everything feels off-kilter today. 

Olivia drums her fingers against the table. Frowns. "I assume there are plans to obtain his release?" 

Blaise doesn't answer. His glass is cool against his palm. He looks up at his mother, at her perfectly oval face, her dark hair swept back from features so delicately sculpted that she looks as if a Renaissance artist created her in his studio. He glances back down at his glass. The gleam of the whisky catches his attention; he stares into it, as if it might reveal some hidden secret. 

Brilliant. He's moved from morose into maudlin.  
His mother leans forward. "Blaise." Her voice is sharp, and Blaise, as much as he hates it, finds his gaze pulled up to hers, like he's still the recalcitrant toddler he once was, being chided by his mother for some foolish bit of wrongdoing. "What aren't you telling me?"

Oh, so very damned much. Blaise's head throbs. He lifts his whisky, takes a long swallow. He sets the glass back down, licks his lip again. He doesn't want to do this, but he'd promised Potter he'd use whatever contacts he has. Unfortunately, most of them seem to go through his mother's connections, and Blaise has been so damned angry at her for weeks. He hates having to swallow his pride, hates having to come to her, hat in hand, asking for her help. 

"Securing a release is complicated." Blaise sighs. Might as well get it over with. "It'll have to go through diplomatic channels, and none of Seven-Four-Alpha can leave Britain, much less make our way to the States." He rubs a hand over his temple, his long fingers pressing into his skin. "I'd rather not find myself thrown into Oudepoort alongside Draco, best friend be damned."

"I can't fault you for that." Olivia's fingernail taps against the rim of her glass. She watches Blaise carefully. "But certainly Saul Croaker has ways--"

"Only if Granger can convince him it's worthwhile." Blaise doesn't bother to keep the bitterness from his voice. "In the current political climate it's not the done thing to waste valuable Ministry resources on a former Death Eater, it seems."

His mother sighs. "I suppose there is that to consider as well." She hesitates, then adds, giving him an astute look, "What is it you want to ask me to do?"

And there's the rub. Blaise doesn't _want_ to ask anything of his mother. Doesn't want to be in Olivia's debt. But Draco needs him. Potter needs him. So Blaise chokes down the remnants of his anger at Olivia and says, his voice tight, "We need an American solicitor to go see him. I thought of anyone of my acquaintance you'd be the one who might know someone across the pond."

Olivia leans back against the banquette. Her face is inscrutable. 

Blaise glances down at his drink. The whisky's nearly gone. He wonders if he ought to have one more. It's not as if anyone's at home waiting up for him tonight. He breathes in, the warm air of the bar burning its way down his throat. The faint trill of jazz music rises up around them from the bar's hidden speakers, a sultry curl of slow saxophones and steady drums. It'd been Andy Curtiss who'd introduced Blaise to jazz during those three years he'd been married to Olivia. Blaise sometimes thinks about what would have happened if Andy'd lived, if they'd stayed a family. Maybe there wouldn't always have been this deep hole inside of him that nothing seems to fill, not properly. 

"Well?" he asks, because he doesn't know what else to say. He won't beg her. He'd promised himself that.

Olivia's still silent. Studying him.

"If you don't want to help," Blaise says stiffly, "then we'll find another way." Espinoza, perhaps. Potter doesn't want to involve her or Boucher any more than they have to, but if needs must…

"How you jump to that conclusion, I'll never know." Olivia looks away. She damned well knows why he might think that. It's not as if they're at their best lately, the two of them. Blaise knows most of it's his fault, but he can't help himself. He looks at his mother and all he can think about is how she lied to him all these years, how she kept the truth of his father away from him, how she turned Christopher Zabini into a fucking Dementor, for God's sake, and let her father take the fall for it. Blaise isn't certain he's ever truly known his mother now. Not with this web of half-truths and deceit stretched out between them.

Olivia taps her finger against her glass again, and Blaise wants to reach over and grab it, keep that finger from striking one more time. He doesn't. He just lifts his whisky, drains it dry. His mother sighs, glances back over at him. Her mouth twists down as she does, probably in disappointment over him. Blaise thinks he ought to be used to that by now, but he knows that's not entirely fair. 

"I do know someone," she says after a moment. "And she owes me a favour. It's possible that I could call it in for this."

Relief twists through Blaise. He tries to hide it, but he knows his mother can tell. She reaches over, touches his hand. Blaise pulls away. He reaches into his pocket, trying not to notice the way her face falls, the way she slides her hand back, lets it rest in her lap. Blaise pulls out a folded slip of paper, drops it onto the table in front of her. "That's everything you need to pass on," he says. "Draco's prisoner number and the little bit we could trace of him. Potter said he's been held in an extrajudicial prison as well. She'll need to ask for John Doe and have his number on hand. They'll claim they don't have him otherwise." Blaise isn't even certain this will work, that Oudepoort will admit to housing Draco, much less let him speak with a solicitor. Granger says they won't have a choice under MACUSA law, but it's been Blaise's experience that people don't always play by the rules, especially if they've something to hide.

His mother picks the paper up, unfolds it. She studies it, then glances up at Blaise. "I'll do what I can," she says quietly. "I can't promise she'll agree, but…" She shrugs, refolds the paper and tucks it into her Birkin. "Shall I let you know tomorrow?"

Blaise nods. "That would be good," he says, and then he adds, trying to keep the hurt and anger still roiling in him at bay, "Thank you."

"It's what a mother's for, darling," Olivia says, and there's a wistfully sad look that crosses her face. She exhales, picks up her glass and drains it. Her hand only trembles a bit when she puts it back down. "If there's nothing else…" She trails off, looks away. 

"One more thing." Blaise leans forward, his elbows on the table. If she's willing to help Draco, perhaps she'll be willing to do this as well. Merlin knows she owes him in this regard. He chews on the corner of his lip before he says, as quickly as he's able, "Can you get a message to Grandfather?"

His mother's eyes widen in surprise.

Blaise just looks at her evenly. "If anyone could, I know it'd be you." 

Olivia hesitates, then she nods. "I might be able to," she says, her voice careful, and Blaise knows she knows more than she's been admitting to. "Why?"

"I want to talk to him." Blaise turns his glass, watching damp circles spread across the polished wood of the tabletop. "I don't care how; I just need to ask him something."

"Because they want you to," Olivia says quietly. There's no need for her to specify who. They both know Blaise is loyal to the Auror force.

He meets her gaze, sees the look of hurt twist across her face. He doesn't acknowledge it. His mother's disappointment at his love of policing has always been a sore spot between them. It's even more of one now that Blaise knows his father had been an Auror as well. Still, he lets his voice thaw a little when he says, "It'd be best for all of us if he talks to me." For a moment, he thinks Olivia's going to object, but she just nods. 

"Your grandfather's his own man," she says. "If he wants to talk, he will. If not…" She shrugs. "But I'll pass on your request."

"Thank you," Blaise says, and he's surprised to realise he means it. His mother must hear it in his voice; her face softens, if only a bit. 

Olivia stands, gathering her bag. She stops beside Blaise, cups his cheek with her hand. Her thumb smoothes across his skin as she looks down at him. It's almost the way it used to be, the two of them alone against the world, but Blaise isn't certain it was ever just the two of them. Not really. As much as his mother loves him--and he's no doubt she does--there's always been a distance between them. A secret kept, a gulf that widens almost imperceptibly with each passing year.

"Be careful," Olivia says, and there's worry in her eyes that even Blaise can't miss. "I don't want you setting fires you can't put out."

"I'm more capable than you expect." Blaise doesn't pull away. He's missed his mother's touch. He might be angry with her, but he'll always love her. Blaise knows that. 

Olivia exhales. "That's what frightens me," she says, her voice soft. Her fingers slip away; Blaise misses their touch. She folds them over the handle of her Birkin. "That boy. Your mate."

Blaise tenses. He doesn't want to think about Jake right now, doesn't want to wonder what it'll be like when Jake steps off the Eurostar tomorrow afternoon, doesn't want to worry about whether or not he should pretend he never heard what Jake said to him, that it'd been swallowed up by the rush of the Floo. "Please," he says warningly. "Don't."

His mother hesitates, almost as if she's afraid to say what she wants to say. She bites her lip, looks away. "I want to protect you," she says finally. "That's all I've ever wanted, since you were a boy. I thought if I could protect you, could teach you not to care, then perhaps the world wouldn't hurt you the way it'd hurt me." Her gaze slips back to him, and Blaise sees something bleak, something raw deep within it. "If that boy cares about you, my darling boy…." She breathes out. "Don't push him away. Don't be the man I taught you to be." Olivia's voice cracks; she presses her lips together as she swallows. She leans down, her voice a soft huff in Blaise's ear. "Be the man your father always dreamed you would become."

And then she's gone, the soft tap of her heels echoing in the quiet of the bar. Blaise turns, watches her slip out of the door, her shoulders back, her head held high. _Mother_ , he wants to call out, wants to run after her, wants to hold her, have her comfort him the way only she could. 

Blaise stays still, long after his mother disappears. He holds his empty glass in one hand, staring down into its depths, watching the last few drops of whisky roll across the bottom until he pushes his chair back with a scrape against the wooden floor. He stands. Walks over to the bar. Holds his glass out to the bartender. 

"Another," Blaise says.

The last thing he wants right now is to think. About his family. About his lover. About his friend. About anything.

He takes the glass the bartender hands him. 

And he drinks.

***

Draco lies on the cot in his cell, staring up at the cement ceiling. The stained off-white paint in the corner's starting to peel. Moisture perhaps. Or something less savoury. He rolls onto his side, drawing his knees up. It's been hot all night, and the guards on duty never bothered with cooling charms on their rounds. Around half-three or so, Draco'd finally given up and shucked off his shirt and trousers; he feels a right idiot lying beneath his thin sheet in nothing but a pair of ratty pants, but beggars can't be choosers, he supposes.

His face still hurts. His nose is properly broken; none of the guards have offered to take him to the infirmary to have it fixed, and Draco refuses to ask. He touches it gently, wincing as pain shoots through his sinuses. The cartilage crackles beneath his fingers, and Draco can't bear it for long. He breathes out through his mouth; lying down like this, his nasal passages are too blocked to do otherwise. But what annoys Draco the most is the bruising across his face and the slight, swollen crookedness to his once perfectly narrow nose. Perhaps it's vain of him, but he doesn't care. All it would take is an Episkey to fix him up. Not doing so is nothing more than a petty cruelty on the guards' part, but, even only a week and a half into his stay at Oudepoort, Draco expects nothing else from some of them.

A twinge goes through Draco's belly as he shifts on the thin, narrow mattress. He's bruised across his abdomen as well from that bastard Paulie's punch, but it worries him less. It's not as if he's sicking up blood, after all. It just hurts, and the skin's mottled and purpling, the imprint of Paulie's knuckles rising up across Draco's pale flesh.

Draco listens to the sounds of the prison waking up around him. The flush of the toilets in cells, the creak of cots as men roll out of bed. It's Saturday, which means a later start to the day, thank Merlin, albeit only by an hour or so. Still, it's a relief to have a day less structured, and he hopes he might have an opportunity to spend some time in the prison library this afternoon, should one of the kinder guards be on call. But for now, if Draco wants breakfast, he'll need to get up himself. As much as he'd rather lie here on his cot feeling wretchedly sorry for himself. 

He pushes himself up. Sits on the edge of the cot and breathes out through pursed lips. Tries not to shudder from the pain rolling through him. Draco hasn't slept well. Mostly because he hurts like bloody hell, but also because he'd kept hearing Harry's voice as he drifted off and he'd startle awake, desperate to hold on to that one last bit of Harry. Of home.

It'd been awful to hang up on him yesterday. Draco had wanted to keep the mobile pressed his ear, had wanted to hold tightly to that tenuous connection to Harry, to hear the soft rush of Harry's breath, the warm rumble of his voice, the lilt of his Surrey accent, so comforting and familiar juxtaposed against this dreadful place of flat and coarse intonations. Draco hadn't had a choice though. He'd been hiding behind a narrow brick outcropping in the side yard, huddled beside a downspout with Bobby and Jonks blocking him from the guard's view for as long as they could. Not long enough really, although Draco supposes it never would be. Not when he's speaking to Harry. 

Draco closes his eyes. Exhales. Remembers the raw, rough edge of Harry's voice when he'd told Draco he loved him. Draco holds that close, reminds himself that he and Harry have a bond these American bastards will never destroy. No matter how long they keep him holed up in this awful place, no matter how hard they try to break his spirit. They'll never be able to take away Harry's love for him--or Draco's belief in that love. In what it means for him. 

Because as mad as it may seem to the outside world, Harry Potter loves Draco Malfoy. Fiercely. Desperately. There's no question of that in Draco's mind. Not now. Not after what they've been through. Not after he'd heard the anguish in Harry's voice yesterday. Whatever doubts he's had along the way are gone. Draco knows what this is between them will never be a flash in the pan. All their lives have been leading up to this love. All the anger and the bitterness and the fear. All the mistakes Draco has made, and all the ways he's worked to mend what he can and to take responsibility for what he can't. Draco didn't know over the past eight years that he was bettering himself to be worthy of Harry. And maybe, Draco thinks, he wasn't. Not entirely. Maybe it was enough to change himself for _himself_ , not for anyone else. But doing so had brought him back to Harry. Had given him a gift Draco had never expected: a chance to become someone who could truly, deeply love and be loved in return. 

And that, Draco is certain, has been worth all the grief, all the pain of facing down the boy he'd once been to become the man he is now. 

Draco breathes in, tries not to wince at the way his ribs hurt. He stands, his legs still a bit wobbly, and staggers over to the sink. Splashes water on his bruised face, pats it dry with the scrap of flannel hung over the rounded sink edge. He glances at himself in the tin mirror, taking in his rough beard and his hair--clean, but limp and scraggly from the harsh soap in the showers, not to mention in need of a cutting. As per usual lately, he looks a complete fright, but he manages to pull his loose hair back into some semblance of order, securing it with a hair tie that Jonks had found for him. He ought to go see the prison barber during his free time this weekend. If he insisted, the guards would have to escort him, Draco knows that. Hygenie's a priority for the warden; rumour has it it that he's a bit of a germophobe. But the thought of making the attempt to find the barber tires him. He'd rather go to the library if he's honest. Jonks had told him that they loaned books out, even let the prisoners take them back to their cells. Draco's desperate for anything that might fill the lonely hours between dinner and breakfast. So, for now, he smoothes his beard down, grateful at least for the way it ages him, hides the narrow pointiness of his jaw. 

He changes his pants, draws on a clean shirt, clean trousers. It's not much, but he at least feels a bit human again. 

The guards come through, open the cell doors, and Draco takes his place in the queue, nodding at Jonks a few men down from him. Jonks frowns, but Draco knows it's more because of the look of him than anything. Both Bobby and Jonks had been furious when they'd seen in the yard what Paulie had done to Draco's face, but Draco had talked them down from going to teach the--as Bobby had put it--fucking rat bastard a lesson. As much as Draco might have enjoyed seeing Paulie's comeuppance, he knows full well it would only have infuriated the other man, thus bouncing back onto Draco at a later date. And most certainly with even more physical pain than the first time. Paulie isn't so different from the boy Draco had been in school, after all. It's what Draco would have done himself. 

Breakfast is a quiet affair. Draco sits beside Bobby, Jonks across from them, and he's halfway through his bacon, wheezing softly, painfully as he chews, when Jasper sets his tray down next to Jonks. 

"You look goddamn sight worse than you did at lunch yesterday, Blondie," Jasper says as he sits, and he gives Draco a sympathetic look. "You poor bastard."

Draco just shrugs and butters a triangle of toast. "I'll heal." He eyes Jasper. The man hadn't been at dinner last night; even Jonks and Bobby didn't know why. 

"Faster if you'd go to the goddamn infirmary," Jonks says, looking up from his eggs. He points his fork Draco's way. "But you won't because you're an Idiot."

"As if they'd let me." Draco glances over at the guards, standing next to the door in a small group. They're not watching the room, but why should they? If one of the prisoners shivs another, that's just one less criminal to look after. Draco coughs softly, his ribs aching as he does. He takes a bite of toast, chews. His jaw hurts. He thinks the pain's worse than it'd been yesterday. "Where were you last night?" he asks Jasper.

That gets him a toothy grin. "Miss me, sweetheart?" Jasper drawls and he chuckles. "I'm touched."

Jonks eyes Jasper. "Boy's got a point. You just up and disappeared."

It takes Jasper a moment to reply. He smears butter across the soft, puffy biscuit he's just broken open, then he sighs. "None your damn, really." He glances around at the three of them, taking in their frowns. "Jesus Christ. What the hell do you jackasses think I was doing? Having a drink with the warden?" He shakes his head, his mouth tight. "Leroy decided get mouthy with me when we had a discussion about his place in our business, and I punched him. Bastard locked me up in solitary until he left his shift at midnight."

"Goddamn, Jas," Bobby says in disgust. "You got to watch your temper, man. Leroy's a fucking snake. Blondie here told us hisself."

Draco looks over at Jasper. "He's not wrong."

Jasper raises his eyebrows, his amusement evident. "Glad to know you're concerned."

And Draco hates that he is. He's grown oddly fond of Jasper Durant over the past week, much to his chagrin. Jasper's a complete tosser, but Draco rather likes that about him. Still, he's not idiot enough to admit that to the man. Instead, he sets his toast down, picks up the mug of truly terrible tea he's managed to eke out of the subpar tea bags the prison keeps on hand. "Just trying to make certain my access to the outside world doesn't get cut off," he says over the rim of the mug. He grimaces at the tea's lukewarm weakness.He's having to drink it black and without sugar; to be honest he might as well be drinking tepid water.

"Sure you are, boy." Jasper winks at him and sets his knife down. Draco feels his cheeks warm. 

Jonks just shakes his head and laughs softly, digging his fork back into his eggs. "That's the problem with Jas here. Fucking bastard actually makes you like his raggedy old ass."

"Fuck you," Jasper says easily. "I ain't old."

"You ancient, man." Bobby leans in, a grin splitting his narrow face. "Your Eddie's forty years old. Christ, that's gotta put you in your sixties."

Jasper glares across the table at him. "Someday somebody's gonna stick a shiv in your back, Bobby, and it's likely to be me if I ever get that goddamn toothbrush whittled down."

The threat doesn't seem to faze Bobby. He just throws his head back and laughs; after a moment even Jasper's mouth tugs up on one side. 

"Asshole," Jasper mutters through a mouthful of biscuit. 

Bobby just chuckles, rocks back on the bench next to Draco. He looks over at him. "Don't let him give you any of his shit, Blondie. He's just an old puff pastry in the end."

Draco looks over at Jasper, who rolls his eyes, shakes his head. To be honest, Draco doesn't think Bobby's that wrong about Jasper. Even knowing what he does about why Jasper ended up here, Draco isn't certain he deserved any of it. Jasper's not a killer. Whatever happened to Christopher Zabini'd been an accident. A stupid one, caused by three men playing with shit they shouldn't have been, but an accident nonetheless. It must be awful, Draco thinks, to have lost twenty years of your life, to destroy your relationship with your family, to lose your wife, your youngest son. Everything. 

He pities Jasper. Hopes that he's not destined to follow in his footsteps, trapped here away from everyone he cares about. He wonders if that's why Jasper's helping him, or if it's simply just that he sees Draco as a connection to his son. Either way, Draco thinks, Jasper Durant's a sobering cautionary tale.

"Thank you for the SIM card," Draco says after a moment. 

Jasper shrugs. "You did your job," he says as he bites into a piece of bacon. He eyes Draco speculatively. "Hope Jonks helped you make your call all right."

Draco feels his face warm. His gaze flicks towards Jonks who's sat there, a mug of coffee cupped between his hands. Jonks just raises an eyebrow at him. Draco clears his throat. "Yes," he says finally. 

"Everything good at home?" Jasper's voice is light. Careful. Draco wonders exactly how much Jasper knows about him. Probably a hell of a lot more than Draco would like. 

"Brilliant," Draco manages to say. He meets Jasper's gaze. There's something sharp and calculating in it, hidden beneath a veneer of warmth, and Draco remembers that, however much he likes Jasper, he probably shouldn't trust this man. No matter how much part of him wants to. 

There's a movement at the door; a guard steps through, leaning in to say something to one of the other guards nearby. Wilson, Draco remembers from Thursday afternoon, and when Wilson turns back around, his narrowed eyes finding Draco in the throng of prisoners, a frisson of something decidedly close to fear goes through Draco. He sits back, uncertain. 

"Johnny!" Wilson's voice carries above the soft rumble of the cafeteria. "Get your ass over here."

"Fuck," Bobby murmurs next to Draco. "That's never good."

Draco really didn't need him to verbalise that. He hesitates, then when Wilson shouts for him again, he pushes his tray away and stands. The men at the tables around him fall silent, watching him. 

"You'll be all right, Blondie." Jasper looks up, and his face is grim. "You just remember that."

"Right." Draco steps over the bench. "Remind me of that if the bastards beat me to a pulp, yes?"

Jasper's mouth quirks up at one corner. "Keep giving 'em sass like that, and they might take you up on that suggestion. Or plop you in that solitary cell I warmed up last night." He reaches over, grabs Draco's wrist. "The warden wants you to fight," he says, his voice low. "If you do, they can do more damage to you. Understand?"

Sadly, Draco does. All too well. He nods, and Jasper's fingers slip away from his skin. Draco draws in an unsteady breath, his lungs aching with the effort, and he picks his tray up, carries it back to the kitchen. He can feel the others watching him as he passes, their conversations faltering as he walks by. He catches sight of Paulie near the corner, a fiercely smug look on his face, and Draco wonders if this is his doing. 

Merlin but he hopes not. 

Wilson jerks his thumb towards the door when Draco reaches him. "You're wanted," he says, frowning. "Go with Garcia here." 

Draco nods, steps through the door into the hallway where Garcia's waiting. He's a young guard, maybe Draco's age, maybe a bit younger, short and husky, his dark curls pomaded back from a high forehead. He's watching Draco curiously. 

"Prisoner 59304-A-23?" Garcia asks, reading the number off a small notecard curled in his palm.

"So they tell me." Draco keeps his voice light. "Although I evidently answer to Johnny as well." 

Garcia starts off down the hall. "For John Doe, yeah?" He glances back at Draco. "Sorry, most of my fellow guards aren't the sharpest. You got a real name?"

His friendliness surprises Draco. He's used to the guards being at best stand-offish to him, at worst mocking. "Malfoy," he says, almost hesitantly, as if giving this man his name will allow him some sort of power of him. He's spent so much time answering to Johnny, Blondie, and _fuck you_ that he's not sure he wants Garcia to call him anything else. "You're new." 

"Not as new as you." Garcia's smile is quick. He studies Draco as they turn the corner. "Don't get many Brits up in here, you'd imagine."

"I'd think not." Draco wonders why Garcia hasn't cast an Incarcerous on him. Garcia ought to at least be thinking in advance about whether or not Draco has anything risky planned. Draco might have his magic muffled, but he's still trained in hand-to-hand combat, and he's fairly certain he could wrest Garcia's baton from his belt before Garcia could stop him. Then again, maybe Garcia doesn't know he used to be an Auror, much less an Unspeakable. That might work to Draco's advantage. "Where are you taking me?"

Garcia doesn't answer for a moment. They stop in front of a warded door; Garcia presses his palm to a flat metal pad screwed into the wall. The door swings open with a creak, and Garcia waves Draco through. The hallway they step into is narrower, grimmer. "You've got a visitor," Garcia says as the door swings shut behind them. "Someone very insistent to see you. She wouldn't leave without at least laying eyes on you, so…" Garcia shrugs, opens another door at the end of the hallway. "Assistant Warden said you might as well talk to her, 'cause legally he can't stop you." He looks over at Draco. "My Dragot's on him more likely being worried she'd go the _Ghost_ or one of the other papers instead." Garcia's face is shadowed. "Seems they don't want word about you out."

"I can imagine not, all things considered." Draco blinks as they step into a small room, brightly lit by a Lumos charm hanging above the table and chairs. There's a woman standing next to the high, barred window, her back to them. Her hair's wrapped in a bright green and cream silk scarf that matches the green of her sheath dress, and for a moment Draco thinks it's Granger, come from Britain. 

And then she turns. Not Granger then, but another woman, with just as sharp and quick a demeanour. She steps forward. "Prisoner 59304-A-23?" American, but her voice is soft and warm, with a lilt that reminds Draco of the women in Durant's Thibodaux. Her quick look slips across his face, takes in his bruising. Her nostrils flare, but she doesn't comment on it.

Draco nods. Swallows. "The one and only." He thinks he recognises her, but that's ridiculous. There's a good three or four million witches and wizards scattered through the States. It's not like Britain, where magical birth rates are, despite the Weasleys' best efforts--still predicting a slow population growth over the next decade or so, keeping the numbers steady at less than eight hundred thousand. If that. So yes, utterly unlikely that he'd know this particular woman. Except she's here at a prison, asking for him. Something doesn't quite feel right.

The woman's gaze flicks towards Garcia. "When we're done, I'll knock." 

Garcia doesn't argue, but one wouldn't with this woman, Draco thinks as the door closes behind him. He considers pounding on it himself and demanding to be taken back to his cell, but that seems to be a bit too cowardly even for someone like him.

"Sit, Mr Malfoy," the woman says, gesturing towards the chair across the table from her. She's already pulling out her own, slipping into it before Draco even moves. She looks up at him, both eyebrows raised. Her dark brown skin gleams in the light, her lips are slicked with a deep red gloss. "We need to talk."

Draco drops into the chair gingerly, and he knows the woman sees the way he winces. Her mouth tightens almost imperceptibly. "You know who I am, but I'm afraid I don't have the same pleasure," he says. He presses his tongue to the soft palate in his mouth, tries to breathe through his nose. It hurts still. Badly. 

"Anna Picquery, Esquire," she says, and she opens the satchel that's sat at her feet, rifles through it. She pulls out a small wallet and hands it over to Draco. "My MACUSA Bar identification. I specialise in criminal defense, and I'm damn good at it. Grew up in Savannah, Georgia, but I practise in New York." She hesitates, then adds, "Mostly."

"You're a solicitor." Draco glances down at the card in the wallet. It seems to be official. Something wriggles through his memory. "You represented Eddie Durant--"

"Until his escape, yes." Picquery takes the wallet Draco hands back. "That sadly ended our attorney-client relationship. Pity, since he's such a charmer." Her lips curve up into something rather close to affection, Draco thinks. "However, now I've been asked to help you in this particular situation of yours."

Draco drags his tongue over his bottom lip. It catches on the scabs that still haven't healed. "Did Harry hire you?" The words come out raw, unsteady.

Picquery looks flummoxed for a moment, then she says, "Olivia Zabini called me last night and explained that you were being held here in Oudepoort under the name John Doe. She asked if I could come speak to you." Her gaze slides down Draco's battered body again. "I think I understand why now."

"Oh," Draco says, and something warm flutters inside of him. He'd known he wouldn't be forgotten. He'd known Harry and Blaise and Pansy would do whatever they could to help him. But he hadn't thought Olivia would step up like this. Blaise must have asked her, and Draco knows what it must have cost him to do so. As much as Blaise loves his mother, he refuses to use her connections unless he has to. It's one of the things that both exasperates and heartens Draco about his best friend. He studies Picquery. Tries to remember what he knows about her, which is next to nothing, really. She'd been there when Draco had questioned Eddie, and as far as he could tell, given he knows next to nothing about the American legal system, she'd seemed competent in the law. She must be if Olivia had sent her. Draco leans back in his chair, trying to seem relaxed. He's not. At all. "How do you know Olivia Zabini?"

"She spent six months in New York a few years ago," Picquery says, leaning down to pick up her satchel, set it on the chair beside her. "I met her socially quite a few times, given that she was seeing the father of a close friend for part of that time. I liked her. She had a certain…" Picquery looks a bit uncertain. "Flair that I found appealing."

Draco knows what she means. There's something about Olivia Zabini that's hard to quantify, but that draws people to her. It's not just the Veela. It's something more. Blaise has it as well, that part of him that, even as Draco had struggled through the Auror force, had let Blaise slip through with a _hail fellow, well met_ sensibility that Draco had envied. He rubs his thumb across the edge of the table. It's splintered in the corner, worn along the rest. Draco wonders how many other prisoners had sat here, across from legal representation. There's a too grim brightness to the room that sets his nerves on edge. 

"How much do you know about my case?" he asks. 

Picquery snorts. "What case?" She glances up at the corner of the room, and Draco feels certain there must be a recording charm of some sort there. That can't be legal, he thinks. Not when a prisoner's speaking to his solicitor. Picquery sighs and leans forward, her voice lowering. "Look, I know they're holding you under some sort of national security charge. That's about all I could dig up under your prisoner number. You're listed as John Doe, which means they want to keep you tucked away, which, even under the current moronic security laws MACUSA has in place, is illegal. And I can guarantee that Mike Wilkinson knows that. And given that it's not likely that someone from the U.K. would breach our national security in a manner that would require this level of intrigue, my guess is that you're either much more dangerous than you seem, or you've pissed off someone very important."

"I _am_ an Unspeakable," Draco says. He's slightly offended by her all-too-correct summation of his current situation. "Espionage isn't outside the realm of possibility." 

Picquery just rolls her eyes. "An Unspeakable with a traceable history of work on the British Auror force. Including commendations and a recent promotion to Sergeant before the Unspeakables won you over." She shakes her head. "It's been my experience that law enforcement who end up in prison show a few more cracks than you have along the way." She pulls a file jacket from her satchel. It's thin, but when she flips it open, Draco sees several pages of notes, written in a small, neat hand. "I got up early this morning and did a bit of research on you, Mr Malfoy. Called a few sources I have across the Atlantic." Picquery glances up at him. "Thank God for time differences. And I heard a lot. From people who where more than happy to tell me about your Death Eater past to people who raved about your work as an Auror. I've got it all." She taps the papers. "And even with all of that, I'm still not seeing how you're a danger to American soil."

Draco rests his elbows on the table. His abdomen aches as he hunches over. "Aldric Yaxley," he says, and he catches the way Picquery's eyes widen, her nostrils flare. That's not something she'd expected. He swallows, rubs his hand along the side of his jaw. "My team was investigating the connection between Aldric Yaxley and my uncle Rodolphus Lestrange."

"The man Eddie ran off with," Picquery says softly, and Draco nods.

"Seems some people in the Quahog administration are a little unhappy about our sticking our noses into Yaxley's business," Draco says. "They tried to stop us, but I'm the only one they caught." He looks away, folds his hands together on the top of the table. "Now it seems the rest of my team can't come back to get me, and MACUSA would like to hang me out to dry." 

Picquery's just looking at him, her lip caught between her teeth, and Draco knows how mad it must sound. He meets her gaze. 

"It's enough for me that my family know I'm here," Draco says after a moment. "You don't have to take my case on." Except he wants her to. He wants anyone to help him get out of this damned place and go back home. To his Harry.

"Oh," Picquery says, her voice quiet, "but that's where you're wrong, Mr Malfoy. I think I'm the perfect person to work with you." She leans back, shakes her head. "It won't be easy to get you out. But I'd like to try." She looks over at him. "If you'll let me?"

Draco hates the wisp of hope that unfurls in his heart. He knows it's nearly impossible. But he wants to see Harry, wants to hear his voice, wants to touch him, hold him close, smell the very Harryness of him. He draws in a slow, careful breath. Breathes it out again. And then he nods. "If you think…" He lets the rest of the sentence trail off. 

Picquery reaches across the table, catches his hand in hers. "Let me do my job. That's all I ask. That you trust I can get you out of here."

"All right," Draco says, and he almost doesn't recognise the thickness in his voice. "Let's try." It's better than letting himself wither away in the bowels of this prison, he thinks as she stands, gathers her satchel. "What should I do?"

"Keep your head down and your mouth shut," Picquery says. She settles her satchel over her shoulder and looks down at him. "Let them treat you like a John Doe. Keep your Malfoy name to yourself. You'll be safer that way. Understood?"

Not really, Draco thinks, but he nods. 

Picquery touches his shoulder lightly. "I'll do everything I can to obtain your release. I promise you that."

And then she's rapping against the door, which swings open, Garcia looking at them. "All done?" he asks, and Picquery nods. 

"I think Prisoner 59304-A-23's done for now," Picquery says, stepping through the door. "And Garcia?"

"Yes, ma'am?" Garcia almost seems humbled. Deferent. It makes Draco oddly uneasy to see him that way. He's starting to wonder exactly who Anna Picquery is, and what the hell she wants with him. Olivia Zabini's powerful, Draco knows that, but there's something more here. Something he doesn't quite understand, but that he's not sure he trusts. He hasn't any other choice, though. 

Picquery glances back at Draco. "Get him to the infirmary immediately. I don't want to ever see him in this condition again, am I clear?"

Garcia shifts from foot to foot. He looks like a little boy being chastised. "Yes, ma'am." He motions for Draco to stand up. "I'll take him there right away."

And as Picquery strides off, her heels clicking softly against the stone floor, Draco can't help but wonder what he's just agreed to. His copper's instincts are on high alert; there's definitely far, far more to Anna Picquery than he'd first suspected. 

Maybe, he thinks, as Garcia ushers him out of the visitor's room, that's not the worst thing. Not when she seems, at least, to be on his side. If Anna Picquery thinks she can get him out of here, Draco's willing to take that chance. Whomever she might actually be.

That flutter of hope, much to Draco's worry, grows stronger.

***

It's not that Jake expected Blaise to meet him at King's Cross on Saturday afternoon. He might have promised, but Jake knows that other things have come up in the meantime. Shacklebolt for one, and this whole Ministry fiasco. But a quiet disappointment suffuses him as he steps out of the Eurostar and onto the platform to see only Mel standing there in jeans and a fuzzy green sweater, the girls at her side.

"Hello, Jake," Mel says, leaning in to give him a quick hug. Her voice is low, barely more than a murmur against his cheek; her auburn hair's pulled back from her forehead by a pair of sunglasses. "Everything go to plan?" 

"Well enough." Jake pulls back, looks down at Graves' daughters. "You two have a good Friday night?" 

Ava, the youngest, just looks up at him, chews on a lock of her bright red hair. Her sister Cady doesn't even bother to pay attention; she pushes past Jake with a bright "Daddy" as she runs towards her father. Graves scoops his daughter up, tipping her upside down so her brown curls bounce towards the platform floor. She laughs and throws her hands out until her father sets her upright, letting her slide back down, her sneakers thumping against the brick. 

"Sorry," Mel says, as Ella dashes over to join her sister and father, and she gives Jake a wry smile. "They've always been daddy's girls. Honestly, it's like they see Tom and any manners they have go right out the window." She shakes her head. "And he loves it, so no chance that he'll straighten them out."

Jake doesn't mind. It's good to see Graves in this light, as a family man whose daughters cling to his sides as he drags them and his suitcase back over to the pillar his wife's leaning against. 

"Got everything there, big boy?" Mel asks, and there's a softness about her that Jake hadn't often noticed in her days as Quahog's chief of staff. It's been good for all of them to get away from the toxicity of MACUSA, Jake thinks, and he wonders when it all began to turn, when his country fell away from the ideals he'd always believed in. 

Maybe those ideals were nothing more than a pipe dream, anyway.

"All I need," Graves says, and the look he gives his wife makes Jake turn away--not of embarrassment, but of envy. He wonders how they do it, how they keep their relationship so warm after all these years. Jake doesn't even know what he and Blaise are doing. Whether it will last. Whether what Jake feels even means anything to Blaise. 

Perhaps this is his answer, this silent return, this deafening absence.

Graves hand settles on Jake's shoulder. "You good?"

Jake nods. He's not, but he won't admit that here. "I'll start in on that project." He doesn't want to reference their discussion with Toni. Not here in the middle of King's Cross. Besides, he's still not certain how he's going to get the evidence she needs. Not from London at least, and he's not certain he wants to involve Alma or Martine in this sort of work. Not with the two of them sitting ducks beneath Wilkinson's sharp eye. They've done enough as it is. 

He looks away from Grave's steady gaze, and then Tom sighs, drops his hand away. "We'll talk tomorrow, if you've time." 

"I'll be around." Jake takes a step back, raises his hand. "Enjoy the rest of your weekend. Spend some time with the girls." Not that he needs to say that. Ava's already wound around Graves’ leg, giving Jake a steady scowl. He turns, walks away, knows that Mel's watching him, sunglasses still perched on her head, a curious look in her eye. 

"Someday, Jake," she calls out after him, "I want to meet this Blaise of yours. You're going to bring him to supper, you hear me?"

"Loud and clear, Mel," Jake says, turning around to look at her. He's not certain that'll ever happen though. Not the way Blaise distrusts Tom. Or the way he and Blaise have been arguing. Jake's not even certain Blaise is still his, if he's honest. Still, he's not going to say that here. So he just smiles, and lets the corners of his eyes crinkle up reassuringly. "Better give me advance warning, though. It'll take some convincing to get him to eat your food." Mel flips her middle finger his way, much to Cady's delight.

" _Mom,_ " she shouts in horrified glee. "You can't _do_ that."

Mel covers her daughter's mouth. "See what you made me do, Jake?" 

And Jake just laughs and takes a few steps backwards, nearly running into an elderly man in the process. 

"Bloody hell, you great oaf," the old man squawks at Jake, taking a swipe at Jake's ankle with his cane. 

When Jake looks back at Mel, she's laughing, her mouth hidden behind one hand. Graves just shakes his head and leans down to pick Ava up. _Your fault,_ Mel mouths at him, and Jake just shakes his head, heads out of the station towards the nearest taxi stand. Mel's a good egg; she always has been, and whatever concerns Jake's had overnight about how much she knew regarding Yaxley and Quahog have eased. At least a little. There's still that niggling worry in the back of his mind, but Jake chalks that up to a cop's cynicism. It's gotten him in trouble more than once over the years.

He's still smiling when he slides into the black cab and gives the driver Blaise's address. It's only three miles to Mayfair; Jake could walk it in an hour if he really wanted to, or Apparate in an instant. Even take the station Floo, if he wants. Which he doesn't. He's never had a good experience with that particular node on the Floo network. It'd once spit him out in Edinburgh instead of Grimmauld. And at least the drive gives him a quarter-hour to think, to prepare himself for whatever he's going to face with Blaise, and that's all Jake really needs. He doesn't know what to expect when he walks in the door; Blaise has been cantankerous for days now, and Jake can't imagine the shit Marchbanks threw about yesterday has helped his mood. Maybe Blaise doesn't even expect him; maybe that's what his absence at the station's meant. Jake tells himself it'll be fine, that if worst comes to worst, he'll take his overnight satchel up to Islington, ask Ron and Hermione if he can crash in their spare room for the night. He and Blaise can work things out as they need to; Jake's prepared to give Blaise as much space as he needs. As much time as he needs. 

Because he loves him. 

And that though sends a shiver through Jake. He doesn't know if he's ready for these feelings; he'd truly thought Harry had broken him. But Jake can't seem to walk away from Blaise. Doesn't want to. Won't, no matter how Blaise might try to make him. 

The cab pulls up outside Blaise's building. Jake pays the fare, steps out onto the pavement. He's glad he didn't use the King's Cross Floo. Jake isn't certain the wards on Blaise's hearth would still be open to him. Although that's ridiculous, and he knows it. For Christ's sake, he only told Blaise he loved him. Not that he wanted anything more. There's no sense in building this up into something it's not just because he's worried and worked himself up into some ludicrous state. Jake shakes his head and starts up the stairs, fully aware he's being a complete idiot. 

Inside, the foyer's cool and shadowed. Jake takes the steps up to Blaise's flat slowly, that laughable trepidation he can't seem to shake growing. He half-wishes he'd kept his tongue yesterday, that he hadn't said what he'd said when he'd said it. It was stupid of him. Stupid and rash, but Jake's always had a bit of that streak, as much as he's tried to deny it. He'd been so exasperated with Harry for doing foolish things, for being reckless and brash and completely thoughtless at times, but Jake had never admitted he had some of the same instincts. As much as he'd known he had. It'd been easier to tell himself he was the adult in their relationship, that he was the one who was calm and stable, even when Jake knew he was lying. To Harry when they were arguing, to Martine when he was drunk, to himself most of the time. Maybe that's why they hadn't worked in the end. Too alike, and Jake pretending otherwise. 

Jake stops in front of Blaise's door. He has a key, but he's hesitant to use it this time. It seems wrong to barge in. Disrespectful even. This is Blaise's flat, after all. Jake hasn't really been asked to move in; circumstances have just shoved them together, and Jake's not so certain he should have agreed to stay. Maybe things would be better if he'd taken Hermione's spare room, then spent some of his time over here. Not all of it. Maybe he and Blaise could have used some space to figure out what they wanted from each other.

So he knocks. Three sharp raps, and then silence. He's just about to give in, to pull out his keys, when the door opens, and Blaise is there, in a rumpled white shirt and jeans, his feet bare. He smells like bourbon, but he's not swaying and his eyes look alert when his gaze slides up and down Jake. 

"Oh," Blaise says. "I meant to come meet you." He looks taken aback, and he glances down at his wrist, at his silver watch. He grimaces. "I didn't realise the time."

"It's fine." Jake feels oddly uncertain. "Can I come in?"

Blaise steps back, holds the door open. He doesn't say anything, but Jake walks into the flat anyway. There's an open, half-empty bottle of Old Forester on the coffee table. Jake drops his satchel on the ground and walks over to pick up the bourbon. He takes a swig straight from it; it's a good year, warm and spicy with just the faintest hint of sweetness afterwards. He looks over at Blaise. "Didn't know you liked bourbon."

"I don't." Blaise closes the door. Locks it. He strides over, takes the bottle from Jake and tilts it up, taking a long swallow. When he lowers it, he looks at Jake with half-lidded eyes and Jake's prick twitches. "But you do, so…" Blaise shrugs and sets the Old Forester back down on the coffee table. He doesn't look at Jake. "I bought a bottle last night from the bartender at the Fumoir."

Jake doesn't know what to say. He shoves his hands in his pockets, watches the way Blaise's jaw tightens, the way Blaise's tongue dips out to slide along his bottom lip. Jake's stomach flips. He thinks sometimes that Blaise has no goddamn idea how beautiful he really is. "You bought it for me?"

Blaise gives him a scathing glare. "I bought it because it smells like you." He flicks a hand up and down. "All leathery and warm and…" His mouth twists to one side. It's not entirely pleasant. "Idiotically American."

A warmth starts to spread through Jake. "Right." He takes a step closer to Blaise. "Because you missed me last night?" It's a risk, he knows. Getting too close sometimes antagonises Blaise more. Jake watches, ready to pull back, but then Blaise's shoulders slump just enough to make Jake sigh in relief. 

"I really hate you sometimes," Blaise says, but he doesn't move away as Jake reaches out, pulls Blaise up against him. "Wanker."

This last is said against Jake's shoulder. They stand together, Jake's hands on Blaise's hips, Blaise's face pressed against Jake's shirt. Jake breathes in the scent of Blaise, earthy and rich, doused in bourbon because the smell reminded Blaise of him. Goddamn, but Jake loves this bastard. More than Blaise can possibly know. More than Jake can possibly express.

"Blaise," Jake murmurs, and then Blaise pulls back, his palm landing on Jake's chest. He pushes Jake back a step, takes a deep breath. He shakes his head. 

"Just…" Blaise hesitates, and then he shakes his head. "Just don't."

"How much have you had to drink today?" Jake's starting to get worried. 

"Not enough." Blaise gives Jake a rueful smile. "Probably too much." He looks at Jake, and there's an agony in his eyes that makes Jake's stomach twist. "The thing is, Jake, you can't say things like that. You can't say them and then go away."

Jake swallows. Blaise's fingers smooth along Jake's shirt, this thumb stopping at a button. He works it free, and then his fingertips dip beneath the placket, grazing Jake's skin. They're warm and solid, and the slight touch is enough to take Jake's breath away. How Blaise does this to him, Jake will never know. It's not just the Veela in him. Jake remembers that much from Moira back in high school. This is different between him and Blaise. Jake's always aware of Blaise, can always feel him the moment he walks in the room. 

Nothing's ever been like this. Jake's pretty damn certain nothing ever will be again. 

"You shouldn't say those things," Blaise says again, and his voice cracks. "Not about me."

"But it's true." And Jake knows he has to be careful here. Knows that this means something. Not just to Blaise, but to both of them. He smoothes a palm over Blaise's cheek, moves that one step closer. Blaise doesn't hold him back this time. "I do love you." Desperately. 

At that, Blaise's eyes flutter closed. He breathes out, presses his lips together. "Circe," he whispers, and his fingers splay against Jake's skin. "I can feel your heart."

Jake's hand slides up. He covers Blaise's fingers with his own, only the thin cotton of his shirt between them. "I love you," he says again. It's the barest whisper this time, but he knows Blaise hears him. "You goddamn, stubborn, brilliant asshole." He wants to open up to Blaise, wants Blaise to feel everything he does, all the joy, the fear, the passion, the need--not to be inside of Blaise but to be next to him, to hold him close, to know that their lives are entwined in a way that terrifies Jake and exhilarates him at the same time.

"I--" Blaise stops and then his eyes open again. He looks at Jake, and there's a clarity in his gaze that Jake doesn't expect. He's less drunk, Jake thinks, than he wants to let on. Blaise swallows, but he doesn't turn away. "I love you," Blaise says, his voice thick, almost angry, and the words burn into Jake's very being, make his breath catch with the staggering depth of what he feels for this ornery bastard. "I love you, and I shouldn't. For your sake--" He glances away, and Jake catches Blaise's chin, turns his head back to look at him. 

"Hey." Jake smoothes a thumb over Blaise's bottom lip. His heart's pounding a staccato beat against his ribs, a downbeat of desire and delight wrapped in a melody of pure joy the likes of which Jake hasn't felt in a hell of a while. Blaise loves him. Whatever this is between them, it's not because Jake feels something Blaise doesn't. This is real. This is what he wants. What he's always hoped for, and he can feel the profundity of it all in the space between them, in the rush of feelings and thoughts that tumble from Blaise to Jake and back again. "You can love me all you want--"

"You're my mate." The words come out blunt and harsh, and the look Blaise gives Jake sends a shudder of molten uncertainty flooding through him. Blaise's face shifts, crumples into a grief that radiates from his whole body. "Merlin, Jake. I'm so sorry. I never wanted to trap you--" He breaks off, presses his lips together as he turns his head away. He doesn't move though. He doesn't pull back. 

That's something at least. 

Jake just stands there, struck silent. He looks at Blaise, those two words echoing through Jake's mind. _My mate._ Jake knows what that means to a Veela. Knows what Blaise is entrusting to him. Knows exactly why Blaise is so frightened of all of this. He'd spoken to Moira about it once, when their paths had crossed again years after their fling. She'd told him how terrifying it could be for a Veela, to know the power that you're handing over to this person, to know that, for you at least, there won't be anyone else. If they die, if they walk away, this is it. That once-in-a-lifetime feeling. Maybe you'll love other people. Maybe you'll even be happy with them. But it'll never be the same. It can't be. Veelas don't give their heart away easily. If it comes back to them, it's always a bit scarred up.

Blaise doesn't look at him. He can't, Jake realises. "I'm sorry," Blaise whispers. 

And it's then that Jake understands. "You think you're compelling me to love you," Jake says slowly, finally. Moira'd worried about that too, even after she and Veronica had been together for years. She'd told Jake that's what kept her up some nights, looking down at her wife, wondering if Veronica was only with her because the Veela had wanted her to be.

Blaise doesn't need to respond. Jake can feel the rush of anguish that goes through him, and it rips something open deep inside of Jake. 

"No." Jake shakes his head. "Darlin', no." He cups Blaise's face between his hands. He tells Blaise the same thing he knows Veronica had said to Moira. Over and over again. "You're not making me feel a goddamn thing that I didn't already feel. It's all here inside of me." He leans his forehead against Blaise's. "I fucking love you, Blaise Zabini, and I don't give a shit if you've got Veela blood in you or not. If I didn't feel all of this…." He presses a hand against his heart. "Jesus. I'd walk away. But I can't, and it's not because of the Veela here." Jake's fingers shift, slide across Blaise's chest. "I love you because you're incredible. Because you're smart. Because the first moment I saw you, I couldn't forget you, and don't tell me that was the Veela calling out because I watched you sleeping in a goddamn hospital bed, drugged out of your mind." He meets Blaise's gaze, gives him a small, faint smile, one he hopes Blaise believes. Jake needs Blaise to understand him, needs him to trust this, to trust Jake means every word he's saying. "I love you because you're you. And if your Veela's just as certain as I am that we're meant to be together, then who the fuck am I to argue with that?"

"You idiot." But Blaise laughs then, softly, rawly, and Jake feels something shift between them, feels that pressure holding him back give way. Blaise breathes in, lifts his head. "I've been trying so hard to let you go if you needed to--"

"Well, I goddamn don't." Jake lets his exasperation slip out finally. "I want to stay here with you, you asshole, and I'd rather you not make it more difficult for the both of us." He smoothes his fingertips along Blaise's jaw. "Okay?"

All Blaise does is nod, swallow. "Okay." He leans in, catching Jake's mouth with his. The kiss is slow and sweet at first, gentle until Jake opens his lips ever so slightly. 

Just enough to take a breath, just enough to murmur, "Mine," against soft, warm skin. Just enough to stake his claim.

"Yours," Blaise agrees.

And then Jake finds himself staggering backwards until his back slams up against the wall, and Blaise is kissing him roughly, his teeth scraping Jake's lip, dragging along the curve of Jake's jaw. It's primal almost, and Jake arches into it, gives himself up to Blaise's want. To his need. 

"Yes," Jake whispers, and he slides his hands along Blaise's back, pulling him closer. Blaise lifts him up, wraps Jake's legs around his waist. A thrill goes through Jake, makes his dick swell, pressing against the zip of his khakis. Goddamn, but he loves this, loves the feel of Blaise against him, the heat of his body. "I love every bit of you, you glorious bastard."

Blaise growls against Jake's throat. "Promises, promises, Durant." He lifts his head, and he looks incredible, his mouth swollen from Jake's kisses, his eyes bright and glittering. For a moment, Jake can almost see the Veela, vicious and furious and distrustful. Perhaps it ought to frighten Jake, but it doesn't. This is still his Blaise, every part of him, Veela and all. 

"Take me to bed," Jake says with a laugh, feeling lighter than air now, more so than he's felt in weeks. "And I'll show you exactly how much I adore you."

For a moment, Blaise stills. "It's not the Veela?" he asks, and his voice is soft. Hesitant. His face looks open, uncertain. 

Jake drags his knuckles over Blaise's stubbled jaw. "Never," he murmurs. "Remember, I've had some experience with Veelas before. I do know what I'm talking about." 

Blaise's eyes flash, bright and angry in the shadows of the room. "I don't--"

And Jake stops him with a kiss. Hungry. Eager. Filled with a need only Blaise can satisfy. "Bed," he says, his voice rough. "If you can carry me that far."

"Twat." Blaise lifts Jake, holds him tightly. Still he staggers a bit beneath Jake's weight, before recovering his balance. He looks into Jake's eyes, holds his gaze. "You're mine, too. You know that."

Jake's entire body burns. He can feel Blaise on the edge of his consciousness, a rush of love and possessiveness that makes Jake's heart swell. This is what he wants. What he's looked for all of his life. 

"Always, darlin'," he says against the heat of Blaise's lips as Blaise stumbles down the hallway towards the bedroom. 

Always. Or as long as Blaise will have him, at least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, you can subscribe for Tales from the Special Branch updates [here on AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/series/661862) or follow me [on tumblr at femmequixotic!](http://femmequixotic.tumblr.com). I'm taking Special Branch asks there. 
> 
> Because I have a fest deadline I need to meet, the next chapter of Set Me Free will post on Sunday, October 7. (I'm never writing "ish" next to a date again as I did with the last chapter--that "ish" cost me 2.5 weeks!!)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Harry and Ron discuss family, Althea receives an unexpected caller, and it rains in Oudepoort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, friends! At just a tad over 18.5K, this is a much shorter-than-usual chapter; I've been wicked busy with work and some other projects, and to be bluntly honest, the whole Kavanaugh Supreme Court brouhaha in US politics last week was incredibly triggery for me on a number of levels and cost me some writing time in favour of self-care, which I really can't regret. Sassy-cissa and Noe did yeoman's work in getting a beta back to me by Monday night, bless them both, but Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday were very long work days for me, so it's taken me some time to get an edited chapter up. My apologies for that. (Now I'm going to faceplant in bed. Because tired. Oh so very tired. Brain not working any more.)

"Oi, mate. Fancy a bit of lunch?"

Harry looks up from the stack of paperwork he's been distracting himself with most of morning--at least since he'd come out of Gawain's office just after ten, his stomach twisted in knots. There's still been no official word about whether Kingsley'll survive Marchbanks' no-confidence vote, but it's looking less and less likely. Gawain's already starting to consider what might happen to his position if the Government changes, particularly since he's been such an outspoken supporter of Kingsley's. It makes Harry nervous for his own survival now; what he'd done in front of the Wizengamot could very well have been career suicide. 

Ron's slouched against the door between the incident room and Harry's inner sanctum, his ginger hair smoothed neatly back, the bit of beard he's just started growing neatly trimmed. He's even wearing a suit--not his nicest one, but flash enough for the Ministry on a Tuesday morning, which must mean he's come over on some sort of business for the shop. 

"It's early yet," Harry says, glancing at the clock on his wall. It's only just gone a quarter past eleven, and the incident room's silent. Parkinson's been called off to consult on an autopsy Jonesey's doing: a goblin had been found sliced up in the alley behind Gringotts last night, but there seems to have been no attempt to break past the bank's wards. Fuck only knows where Zabini's gone off to. Harry'd put him on finding ways to get Draco out of Azkaban, and he'd told Zabini he didn't give a damn if they were legal or not. Zabini's probably out with one of his dodgier associates--or so Harry hopes. He's starting to think the diplomatic ways of getting Draco out from beneath MACUSA's thumb are destined to fail before they're even floated as possibilities. 

Ron shrugs, his hands in his trouser pockets, his jacket ruched up above them. "I'm starving, and Hermione's locked up with Croaker, or so she's texted me. You're my next hope."

"Sloppy seconds, am I?" Harry smiles at Ron. It almost hurts when he does, as if he's half-forgotten what it's like. He glances down at the papers spread across the desk in front of him. It's mindless, really. Reports to be filed, requisitions to be signed off on, the daily detritus of Auror work, even for a team as hobbled as his has been the past few weeks. Harry wants to push it off his desk, bin the whole stack of budgetary forms and internal memos. Not to mention the file jackets Gawain had handed off to him this morning, cases that he wants them to look into whilst they're all sat around waiting to figure out how the Government's going to shake out. The cases are nothing but busywork, really. Incidents that a first-year Auror might handle, not a specialised team like Harry's. 

But, Special Branch designation or not, they've no fucking authority to do anything any more, do they? Not whilst MACUSA's filing diplomatic complaints against the lot of them and hiding Draco deep within their prison system. 

Not that Harry's bitter about any of that. Not that he hasn't wished he'd hung up on Jake when he'd rung Harry up from Thibodaux, wished he'd told Jake to fuck off, to solve his own problems. Except Jake's problems had been twined up with their case, hadn't they? And they'd all blithely gone over, led Rodolphus Lestrange exactly where he'd wanted them to. Harry can't help but feel like he's nothing but a pawn, some bit player in a game he doesn't understand, doesn't want to learn. 

It's like his school days all over again, except at least back then Dumbledore'd tried to keep him safe as best he could. These days Harry feels as if he's hanging out with a giant target on his back and no idea from what shadowy corner the next Unforgivable might burst out. 

"Come on, Harry." Ron's voice is gentle. Hesitant, almost, and when Harry looks back up at him, Ron's easy nonchalance is gone, replaced by a look of concern. "You can't hole yourself up in here all day."

Harry could. He had yesterday, in fact. But he knows Ron's right, so he nods slowly and pushes his chair away from his desk. "I suppose I could take off an hour." He stands, reaches for his suit jacket, drawing it on over his crumpled white shirt. He'd woken up late this morning; he hadn't been able to sleep, so he'd taken half a potion just past midnight. It'd been stupid of him, of course. Harry still hasn't shaken the grogginess completely, despite downing two coffees and a tea. All they've done is send him off to piss every hour. He smoothes down his lapels, tugs his jacket sleeves over his shirt cuffs. 

Ron just watches him; Harry feels oddly on display. "Your whole team's off," Ron says. "You could probably be gone the whole afternoon and no one would notice."

He's not half-wrong, as much as Harry'd rather not admit it. As much as he's trying to go through every day now as normally as he can, he knows he's complete shit at it all. Zabini and Parkinson aren't much better. For a crack team of Aurors, they're utterly useless these days. Even if Gawain gave them an important case, they'd probably fuck it up. Their focus is shattered; Parkinson's too worried bout Whitaker's recovery, Zabini's caught up in whatever his latest drama is with Jake--although he'd left work positively beaming yesterday so who the hell knows what's up between the two of them. Harry'd rather not look too closely. There are things about his ex he doesn't want to know. 

And then there's Harry himself. All he wants is to get Draco home. Policing isn't the first thing on his mind. 

"Harold," Ron says, his voice quiet, and when Harry looks back up at him, surprised at Ron's use of the nickname only Hermione calls Harry, Ron's forehead is creased, his gaze worried. "Stay with me, mate." Ron tries to keep his tone light, but Harry's known him long enough to know when he's concerned about Harry acting strange. Yet again. 

"Right. It's fine." Harry runs his hands through his hair, shakes his head. "I'm just tired." It's true, in its own way. He clears his throat, straightens his shoulders. Tries to tell himself he's fine. One day he'll believe it. Maybe. "Think we could stay out of Diagon?" Harry really doesn't want to deal with the looks he's been getting when he walks through the Ministry corridors. They'll only be worse outside. Sunday's _Prophet_ article about the Wizengamot hearing had made fucking certain of that. Not to mention the editorials and letters the paper'd run yesterday in its aftermath. It seems everyone in the whole bloody country has an opinion on his relationship with Draco. Harry'd even turned on the WWN last night to catch up on the Quidditch, and the sodding commentators there had been talking about it in relation to the Harpies' latest match. Harry thinks he ought to send an apology card to Gin for that one, except he thinks she'd find it utterly hysterical. He picks up his satchel, glances over at Ron. "Maybe we could find a Muggle place?"

"Wouldn't mind that myself," Ron says. He steps back from the doorway with a faint grimace as Harry walks past him. "Had a bit too much of wizardom myself today." He follows Harry into the empty incident room. "Sometimes being your mate's rough."

"Sorry about that." Harry really is. He knows it hasn't been easy over the years for Ron. Hermione's adjusted to it more easily, but it's always been a bit harder to ruffle her feathers. Ron tends to wear his heart on his sleeve far more. It's something Harry's always liked about him, even as it drives him mental from time to time. 

Ron pats Harry's back, a soft double-tap through Harry's jacket that's as oddly comforting as it is quick. "Probably worse being you in the end." Ron gives him a quick grin as Harry shuts the incident room door behind them, warding it with a flick of his wand. Not that he really needs to. They've nothing truly confidential in there any more. All their important file boxes have been carted off for other Auror teams, but not before Zabini digitised the contents for their laptops and tucked a copy away on a server entirely out of the Ministry's control, thank Merlin. There are benefits to heading a team of suspicious Slytherins, it seems. 

It's early enough that they don't run into many people in the Ministry corridors; most of the Ministry's tucked away in offices and conference rooms doing the mindnumbingly dull daily work of the nation. The few witches and wizards they see cast curious glances Harry's way, but no one bothers to say anything. Harry doubts they would, not to his face at least. One of the benefits of being a trademarked War Hero is that he's always treated with a certain modicum of deference, even by people who loathe him. But that never stops them from gossiping behind his back, of course. Usually Harry doesn't care. When it comes to his relationship with Draco, however, he does. Very much so, in fact, regardless of how foolish it might be of him. 

So he glares back at anyone idiot enough to look at him, and their glances slide away, their cheeks flushing, their backs stiffening as if it's his fault he caught them watching him. 

"Let it go," Ron murmurs as they make their way across the Atrium, and Harry tries to. He really does. But his gaze falls on an open copy of today's _Prophet_ at Louie Shunpike's shoeshining stand, and he catches a glimpse of Draco's picture beneath a headline asking _Can a former Death Eater truly change his ways?_

Harry grabs the _Prophet_ before Louie can protest, and he balls it up in one fist, the thin newsprint tearing beneath his furious fingers. "This is rubbish, Louie," Harry snaps, and he waves the crumpled paper in Louie's round, florrid face. "You know what they said about your brother--"

"Stan weren't never a Death Eater," Louie snaps back. His bland, brown hair tumbles over his flushed brow. "Not like that one of yours there." He tries to pull the _Prophet_ from Harry's fist. "He were Imperiused--"

"And he wasn't when the Ministry threw him into Azkaban." Harry rips the _Prophet_ into shreds, binning them in the black-slatted receptacle behind Louie's stool. 

"Harry," Ron says, but Harry's too angry. 

"You know what lies that rag told about Stan." Harry's voice rises; a few heads turn towards them. "The Ministry wouldn't have gone after him if it hadn't been for that fucking rag!"

Louie takes a step back, gripping a stained scrap of cloth between his fists, twisting it around his fingers. "It's just the _Prophet_ ," he says. "My customers need something to read--"

"It's fine, Lou," Ron says, and his hand curls around Harry's bicep, his fingers digging into Harry's flesh. "It's just a bit sensitive right now, you know?" Harry wants to pull away, but he knows by how tense Ron is beside him that it wouldn't go over well.

Louie looks between Harry and Ron, then nods. "Yeah." He takes a step back, his calves hitting the side of his stand. It's as far away from Harry as he can get without putting the whole stand betweent hem, and Louie's not that sort. "Yeah, I know." He relaxes a little, but the look he gives Harry is still uncertain. "Soz."

"No worries." Ron doesn't let his grip loosen as he pulls Harry away. "Look, I'll pop by for a buff and shine a bit later, if that's good? Have to find a bit of food right now, though, before this one and I starve to death." He nudges Harry, who just nods mutely. Harry's breathing hard, his molars clenched so tight he's starting to give himself a headache. 

"I'll save a spot for you," Louie says, and his gaze flicks over to Harry. "You too, if you want."

It's an olive branch; Harry knows that, so he nods again. "Thanks," he manages to say. His voice feels raspy and raw in the back of his throat. 

Harry lets Ron pull him away. 

"God," Ron murmurs as they head for the outside lift. "You really can be a fucking wanker sometimes, mate. At least you didn't set anything alight this time."

"You don't know what it's like." Harry steps into the lift; Ron crowds in behind him. "What everyone's saying about him--all the lies and the shit coming out of the press--"

Ron snorts. "Have you forgotten I grew up as your best mate?" He reaches over, flicks his thumb and middle finger against Harry's forehead. "Idiot."

"Ow." Harry rubs the stinging spot between his brows. "What the hell was that?"

"Oh, I don't know," Ron says, his voice exasperated. "It's not as if I read all about my girlfriend being your latest conquest, or about how utterly mental you'd gone at school. It's almost worse now the war's over because it's all about how bloody brilliant and amazing and wonderful Harry Potter is, and I'm the one who's sat there and smelt your farts after you've had a bad kebab, mate, so this idea of Perfect Potter is fucking ridiculous to me." The look he gives Harry is warm. "You have to stop caring what the press say. Isn't that what you've always told me?"

The lift slowly slides into the red telephone booth Harry remembers from his first trip to the Ministry, then shudders to a stop. Harry leans his head against the cool glass. "It's easier not to care when it's about me."

"It always is." Ron pushes the door open. The rumble of London traffic seeps in, a familiar soundscape to a cool, grey Tuesday morning. He looks back at Harry. "It's shit when it's someone you care about, but being angry isn't going to do any good. You'll just look like a right tit in the end." 

Harry groans, the surge of anger the _Prophet_ had induced receding a tiny bit. "I hate it when you make sense."

"You'll live." Ron steps out of the phone booth. "But I might not if we don't eat."

"Bollocks," Harry says with a roll of his eyes, but he follows Ron down the narrow side street.

They find themselves at a tiny chippy off Trafalgar Square, the type that's meant mostly for takeaway, with only a narrow high countertop in the window for seating. They order their battered cod and mushy peas--Harry asks for a bottle of dandelion and burdock as well--then settle on the tall, uncomfortable stools, looking out over the passing traffic and the tourists heading for a peek at Old Nelson on his plinth. 

Ron's silent for a long moment, picking up a chip and chewing it slowly before he glances over at Harry. "So other than the whole vendetta against the nation's press you seem to have as of late, are you holding up well?" he asks. 

Harry's glad Ron waited until they were here to ask. It's given him some time to prepare himself, to be able to nod, to say, "I'm all right." They both know it's a bit of a lie, but it's one Harry has to keep in place. 

"Could be worse, eh?" Ron reaches for the malt vinegar someone's left on the countertop corner, between the mint-green wall that needs a good coat of fresh paint and the grimy window. He douses his chips with the vinegar; the sharp-sour smell of it makes Harry's stomach turn. "At least you know where Malfoy's at."

That he does. Harry's just not certain it helps any. He sighs, lifts his soda to his lips, wishing it were something rather stronger. Back in the day, dandelion and burdock had been alcoholic. Over in the Leaky, Tom still stocks a type that is, a wizarding brew made up in Manchester in small batches, but he won't sell it to just anyone. Tom says it's to keep the drink special; Harry suspects it's because the manufacturer's unlicensed. 

Harry takes a drink, then grimaces at the too sweet bitterness of it as he sets the bottle back down. "Zabini's mum arranged for a solicitor." Zabini hadn't known any more details; he'd just said that his mother had rung someone up in New York she thought might be able to help, and that the solicitor had agreed to go see Draco. They haven't heard anything more. 

And Harry's mobile's been horribly silent since Friday. 

"That's good, yeah?" Ron looks over at Harry. "It means you might get him out soon."

"Maybe." Harry's not so certain of that. The legal system in the States is different; Harry's no idea how long it might take before Draco could be released. Weeks? Months? Years? He draws in an unsteady breath at that thought. "Has Hermione said anything?" She'd promised Harry she'd see what Croaker was willing to do, but the last time he'd spoken to her yesterday--quickly, in the corridor--she'd just shaken her head and told him to give her some more time. Harry knows she's doing what she can; the no-confidence vote has thrown the whole bloody Ministry into turmoil the past few days. 

Ron rolls a vinegary chip between his fingertips; the golden surface breaks, and the soft, steaming white mush beneath smears across his skin. He drops it back onto the plate, then wipes his fingers on a paper napkin. "Croaker's more focused on the political shit that's going on." He looks over at Harry. "Keep this quiet, but Hermione says he's not planning to throw his weight behind Kingsley right now."

Not many people are. The _Prophet_ 's made certain of that. Harry'd been surprised to see the byline on the article about him on Sunday. Quirke hadn't written it--or at least she hadn't claimed credit for it. Rita Skeeter had, and that awful poison pen of hers had suggested more than once that Harry'd been brainwashed by Death Eaters, Imperiused into a relationship with Lucius Malfoy's son for the sole purpose of Rodolphus Lestrange escaping Azkaban. No matter that none of that rubbish made any logical sense. Skeeter'd made a whole meal of Draco's absence from the force, suggesting he'd joined his uncle once they had what they wanted, and how terrible was it for poor Harry that he'd been taken in by such men. And somehow, in some way, Kingsley's responsible for it all. Perhaps, Skeeter'd written, such a tragedy would never have happened with a strong woman like Marchbanks in charge.

As if fucking Griselda Marchbanks had any say in who Harry dated or could have controlled in any way what had happened in Azkaban. None of them had seen Marcus Wrightson coming. Not even Whitaker and she worked with the man day in and day out. 

Fuck them all, Harry thinks bitterly. Skeeter, Marchbanks, the whole goddamned country. He looks down at his plate. The greasy, fried cod is the last thing in the world he wants to eat, but he tries to take a bite. He manages to get it down, to wipe a napkin across his mouth. Outside a lorry rumbles past, nearly sideswiping a Hyundai in the process. 

Really, Harry's sick of London, of the way life just moves on around him, of the way his life's used for other people's lies. He wants to pick up his plate, to throw it through the glass in front of him, to burn everything down around him, to _destroy_ \--

"Hey," Ron says quietly. 

Anger's twisting through Harry again, more than before, furious and quick and so very fucking alive. His hand shakes; Harry can smell the stench of decay, the perfect beauty of carnage, of ruin, of havoc and loss. His skin crawls with it, with that familiar itch that digs itself into his skin, that wants him to do _more_ than he's been doing. How pathetic is he? Holding back, waiting for others to do the dirty work he knows has to be done, letting the world around him spin out of control. _Weak_ , something screams inside of him in a violent surge of magic. _You've always been so sodding weak._

"Harry." Ron's voice is sharper in his ear, but it's only when Ron's fingers settle over Harry's arm that Harry turns his head. Ron's face is pale, reflected in the glass window in front of them, his blue eyes are bright, the corners crinkled in worry. "Look."

And Harry does. The napkin clenched in his hand is on fire, the orange flames licking at Harry's fingers, curling around them, burning hot and clear across Harry's skin. Harry's breath catches; he drops the napkin. It falls against his cod, the fire slowly going out, leaving the napkin an ashy black pile against the breaded crust of the fish. Harry just stares at it, swallows. He turns his fingers. They're not blistered. They're not even pink. It's as if there'd never been a flame touching them. 

"It's been happening more often, hasn't it?" Ron asks, his voice soft, heavy with concern. 

Harry nods. He doesn't know what to say. He can feel the marks against his skin, and he wants to pull his shirt sleeves back, wants to show them to Ron, wants to share this burden that's settled across his shoulders, that keeps him awake at night, that pulls him towards his wardrobe, more and more, compelling him to wrap himself in that fucking cloak, the one he'd barely thought of for years, the one he'd hidden away. 

But when the fabric touches his bare skin, settles against his shoulders, over his chest, Harry feels right for the first time since Draco'd been left behind in Thibodaux. It frightens him, what he sees when the fabric falls over him, those ghosts that cross his path, that almost seem to see him there in the silken shadows as they brush past him. But when Harry closes his eyes, the only sound the harsh rattle of his own breath against the cloak, he can almost feel Draco next to him, can almost touch his mind, can almost reach out, brush his fingertips against Draco's presence. 

It's all madness. Harry knows that. It's nothing more than his grief. His hope. His desperation. All fueled by drink, by the whisky he downs again now, each night when he's alone. Never the way he had at first. Harry comforts himself with that fact. He's functional again, able to come to work, to pretend in front of others that he might be fine, that he might have himself pulled back together. 

And he does, when he's not by himself. When he has Zabini and Parkinson nearby, or when he goes over to Ron and Hermione's for dinner and a drink or two.

Late at night's different, though. When he comes back to Grimmauld, to the silence of its hallways, the emptiness of its rooms. Even the house is distant, grim, closed in on itself once more. And with it pulling away, with each tiny centimeter Draco's dressing room loses each day, Harry feels alone again. Even more so now that he's heard Draco's voice, that he knows Draco's still alive. Harry needs to see Draco, and he can't bear that he can't, that he's trapped here in England, that he doesn't dare to go back to the States where he knows he should be, his own safety be damned. 

He's a coward. Harry knows that. A stain on the memory of Godric Gryffindor. 

Padfoot would have gone, if it'd been Moony held captive. Or Prongs. Maybe even Wormtail, before Sirius had known what Pettigrew had done. Harry wants to be more like his godfather. He'd seen Sirius last night, watching him from the doorway of Harry's bedroom as Harry'd wrapped himself in the Invisibility Cloak, hoping for the faintest hint of Draco's presence. But it hadn't been the Sirius Harry had known that watched him, the godfather with his gaunt, drawn features, too thin from years spent in Azkaban, his eyes bright with madness and fury. No. This had been a younger Sirius, younger even than Harry, not quite a boy, not quite a man, with broad shoulders and loose, dark hair. A Sirius who'd looked at Harry as if he were a cowering, gutless fool. 

Maybe Harry is.

He rubs his palms against his trousers. Clears his throat. His voice is still raspy when he says, "It's just…" He trails off, not certain how to explain it all to Ron. Not certain he should. It's as if something's closing his throat, strangling off the words. 

Harry looks away. 

Ron's quiet for a long a moment. He stares out the window, his lip caught between his teeth. He's not the boy of their youth any longer either, Harry realises, studying Ron's reflection in the glass. Neither of them are, and Harry wonders when they grew up, when the trauma of their adolescence left these deep lines on their faces, across their souls. He rubs his fingertips across the bridge of his nose where his glasses pinch the most. Tries to breathe. 

"You need help," Ron says finally. He looks at Harry then, and his face is serious. Unhappy. "Your magic's too wonky, Har. Hermione told me what happened with the Wizengamot, how they saw--"

"I'm fine." Harry closes his fists, his fingernails digging into the fleshy curve of his palm. He stares down at his hands, half-hating himself for the lie. 

Ron looks away. He shreds a bit of cod between his fingers, the greasy breading falling in tiny balls onto his plate. His shoulders hunch; he lowers his head, exhales, before he says, "Christ, you're a stubborn prick."

Harry can't argue with that. He watches an old man walk past, dragging a small cart behind him, filled with what look like bags of rubbish. A rough sleeper, Harry thinks. The man's clothes are rumpled and dirty, his hair matted in the back. But when he turns his head, looks through the plate glass at Harry, his bright blue gaze is sharp. Almost familiar. 

It's only when he smiles at Harry, with teeth far whiter than anyone who's sleeping on the London pavement should have, that Harry sees past the dirty clothes and hair. 

Rosier. 

_I'm watching you, lad,_ Death mouths at him. _I'm watching_ all of you. And then Harry's pushing his stool back, the legs scraping across the tiled floor of the chippy. 

"Harry," Ron says, but Harry's halfway out the door, on the kerb, pushing through a throng of Italian tourists that have come out of nowhere. 

Rosier's gone. 

The tourists hurry down towards Trafalgar, their laughter and chatter lingering behind them. Harry stands in the middle of the empty pavement, turning uncertainly. 

And then Ron's there, his fish and chips left on the counter behind the window. He grips Harry's shoulder, stopping him, making Harry turn back towards him. "What the hell, Harry--" Ron breaks off. He looks upset, and Harry just blinks at him, wishing Ron would let go, wishing he could bolt down the street, trying to find where Rosier went to. But instead Ron's fingers dig into Harry's bicep as he pushes Harry back towards the door of the chippy. 

"I thought I saw…" But Harry trails off, knowing how mad he'll sound. He lets Ron lead him back inside, and he tries to ignore the curious stares of the staff, their faint murmurs as they watch him slide back onto the stool. 

Ron leans against the counter. His jaw's tight; he drags his tongue across his mouth before biting back down on his lip.

Harry pushes his plate away. The smell of it makes his stomach churn. He drinks his dandelion and burdock instead. It doesn't help much. When he sets the bottle back down, Ron sighs and looks over at him. "Who'd you think you saw, Harry?" His voice is quiet. 

"No one." Harry pushes his glasses up over his forehead, presses his fingertips against his eyes so hard they hurt. He tries to breathe out. 

Ron just waits, watching him. 

Harry shakes his head, lowers his hands. His glasses slide back down; tiny, bright floaters drift across his vision. He blinks and they're gone again. "Rosier," he says finally. His voice sounds harsh and thick to his ears. He swallows, then inhales. "Death. Whatever the fuck he wants us to call him now."

The jangle of the bell hung over the door handle makes Harry jump. He looks over; two uni students walk in. Post-grads, Harry thinks, but he's not certain. They barely glance his way. His gaze slides back to Ron, who's sat there, his face blank. "I'm not making this up," Harry says, but he wonders if he's telling Ron the truth. Maybe his mind's playing tricks on him. Maybe it's the lack of sleep. He doesn't know any more. 

Ron nods. He picks up a sodden chip, eats it, then another. "I know," he says finally. "Or at least you think you're not." 

It's a fair enough assessment. Harry can't be angry, whether or not he wants to be. Not when he's wondered the same. So he sits, and he looks out the window, half-afraid he'll see the old man again. He doesn't. His pulse evens out; his shoulders relax. Ron's never been certain about this whole Death thing. When Harry'd first told him about it, after they'd been back a week, he'd been sceptical. Certain that Rosier was complete rubbish, was making them believe something that wasn't true. And maybe he's right. 

Deep down inside, though, Harry knows what he saw. What Rosier said to him. What that means. Back then in Thibodaux and now in London.

Harry hasn't thought about the fucking cup in ages. He's been too worried about Draco. And he can't help but think it's significant that just after he finds Draco alive, Death appears with a warning. Almost as if he's been waiting for Harry to pull himself together. To fulfill his promise. 

_You're the protector now, Inspector Potter. Sworn and marked._ Harry can almost hear the echo of Rosier's voice in the Fontenot tomb. _You had best find my cup and deliver it. Time is slipping away._

Tick-tock, Harry's mind whispers, and his eyes are drawn to the silver clock on the tiled wall just over the chippy's menu board. It's ten to twelve, and Harry wonders where the time has slipped away. This morning, this weekend, this past month. It's all gone, sliding through his hands like water, and Harry's unable to stop it, unable to turn it back, to make it slow. 

"Mate," Ron says, his voice even, calm in a way only Ron can be when he's upset but doesn't want to admit it. "You're worrying me."

"I'm sorry." Harry closes his eyes for a moment. Tries to pull himself back together. To stop the prickling across his skin. He breathes in, then out, then back in again, settling the roil of magic inside of him. When he looks back at Ron, he feel steadier. "I haven't slept well since Draco rang." 

"Not surprising." Ron shifts on his stool, turning towards Harry. His knee brushes Harry's thigh. "Hermione _is_ trying to push Croaker--"

Harry raises his hand, cutting Ron off. "I know." He rests his elbows on the counter, looks out the window again. "It's just everything right now. Draco being imprisoned. The Kingsley vote. The fucking Death Eater registry."

Ron rubs his thumb over the edge of his plate. "It's a lot."

That's an understatement. Harry rolls his head back; his neck cracks and pops as he does. He's too bloody tense lately. "We're on a bloody path to our own destruction, Ron. The whole fucking country. Marchbanks'll grab power, fuck us all over with the Registry--"

"Which isn't a done deal, yet," Ron protests, but when Harry frowns at him, he looks away. "I have to hope they'll come to their senses."

"You've two brothers supporting it." Harry doesn't even bother to keep the bitterness out of his voice. He's still angry with Percy and George. 

Ron picks up his fork, drags it through his mushy peas. "Give George some time," he says after a moment. "This isn't like him. It's just, with the Fredlet, he's feeling our Fred being gone. That's hard for him, you know that, and he's angry. He wants to lash out at someone--"

"He's going to destroy people's lives," Harry says fiercely. "Draco's. Narcissa's. Andromeda and Teddy's for fuck's sake--"

"I know." Ron's voice is sharp. "And I'm trying to get him to see reason. But he has a kid now. A family he's worried about protecting, and he's not thinking clearly." Ron drops his fork back down against his plate. "And Perce is just a fucking idiot." He shakes his head, his mouth twisting to one side. "He's certain Marchbanks is going to reward him for supporting her. How he managed to Sort Gryffindor, I still don't know. Sometimes I think the Hat just saw the ginger on him and tossed him in with the rest of us."

Harry's mouth tugs up on one side. "Gin used to say the same." 

They look at each other, and Harry feels the years of history between them, the deep, steady friendship that's made Ron the closest thing Harry's ever had to a brother. "I'm frightened," Harry admits after a moment. "The Registry won't hurt your family--"

"It'll probably help it," Ron says, his voice quiet. "Hermione and I've talked about that. We won't be the ones who lose everything."

Harry looks down at his hands. He twists his fingers together, rubs a thumb across his knuckles. "I promised Draco I'd take care of his mum. But how am I going to do that? They'll have no money, and you know Marchbanks'll block me from doing anything the moment she has power."

Ron doesn't answer at first. He shifts, and the stool creaks beneath his thighs. "We've been talking about that, too," he says, and he looks over at Harry then. "Me and Hermione. You're going to have to get them out of the country. All of them. Mrs Malfoy, Andromeda, Teddy. Maybe even you, Harry."

That catches Harry by surprise. "I'm not leaving--"

"I think you might have to." Ron meets his gaze. There's something in his expression that draws Harry up short, that makes his gut twitch with the intensity of it. "If they're going after Death Eaters, mate, what makes you think they'll stop there? You had Voldemort in your head; you were a sodding Horcrux--"

"Marchbanks doesn't know that," Harry says.

Ron rubs his fingers across his jaw. "She might. There are enough people who know that about you. Percy, for one."

They look at each other for a heartbeat, a breath. "He'd never," Harry says, but he doesn't know that Percy wouldn't. Not if he believed he was doing the right thing. And in that, Percy Weasley's the perfect Gryffindor, isn't he?

"All I'm saying is that you need to be prepared to go yourself, if it's necessary." Ron's face is sober. "You may think you don't have to, but…" He looks back out the smudged window, his profile lit by the bit of sunshine that filters through the grey clouds and dingy stone buildings around them. 

"Ron." Harry doesn't know what else to say. He draws in a heavy breath. "They wouldn't…not with me..." Harry trails off. He's not certain the Ministry wouldn't lock him up. They've certainly wanted to before, at least some of them. Harry's always been a little bit too dangerous for certain parts of the Wizengamot. 

Chosen One or not.

"I'd rather have you alive than in whatever new hell of Azkaban Marchbanks can think up," Ron says quietly. "Same for everyone else. If we have to get you all out, we can manage. I've already been considering how I might hide people in the supply chain for the other stores. If I use Muggle transport--"

"The Ministry'll never allow you to do that," Harry says. He appreciates Ron's help, but the last thing he wants is his best friends being punished for assisting him.

Ron gives him a mulish look, and the set to his jaw makes Harry suspect that he's already started to fight this battle. Whatever Harry might think. "Yeah, well…." He shrugs. "We'll see." His nostrils flare ever so slightly; only someone who knows Ron as well as Harry does would notice. "I had a discussion with the Trade Board about contracting with a Muggle cargo company this morning. They weren't happy, and I'm facing some pushback from them, but some of our products are too volatile to be transported to the Continent by magical means. It only makes sense to use Muggle transport."

Harry picks up a chip from the end of his plate that isn't covered with napkin ash. He nibbles off the end. "You've used stabilising charms on the Hogsmeade shipments."

"Scotland's closer than Berlin." 

"Not closer than Paris, though," Harry points out, and Ron shrugs again. 

"Doesn't mean that the Berlin shop wouldn't need Muggle transport." Ron loosens his tie knot. He leans his elbows against the counter. "I could easily load up lorries in London and have them drive boxes over to Berlin. Add a few charms to hide the contents from Muggles, make them see something that isn't magical, and Bob's your fucking uncle. And if I can get approval for that, then you lot have a way to get out of Britain if you need it. How often do the Aurors patrol the Port of London, after all?"

More than one might think, Harry wants to say, but he knows Ron's trying to help. "Thanks," he manages instead, and Ron reaches over, squeezes Harry's shoulder. 

"You're not alone in this, you know." 

Harry's not certain Ron's right about that, not in the wider sense of things, at least, but he gives him a small smile anyway. "Maybe it won't come to all of this." Maybe the Wizengamot will see sense in the end. 

Not bloody likely. 

Ron looks away. Tries to nod, but Harry can see his doubt as well. "I just want you to be safe," Ron says after a moment. "We all do, even Percy and George if they could see what they're doing." 

"I know." Harry swallows past the raw thickness in the back of his throat. Not that he deserves the Weasleys caring about him. Harry's always been difficult, always pulled Ron and Hermione into situations they'd be safer to stay away from. This is just another one of those. "They could come after you, too."

"They won't," Ron says, a bit curtly. "Not with George and Perce behind Marchbanks, and Croaker looking out after Hermione. We're all safe as houses, and if you have to go, you'll need people here on the inside." He meets Harry's gaze, hesitates for a moment before saying, "Jesus, Harry. What's happening now isn't so different from Voldemort and his band of merry fuckers. Maybe it's swinging the opposite direction a bit, but the momentum's still the same. Preying on people's fears and worries to gain power?" His mouth twists in disgust. "Marchbanks and her ilk ought to know better."

Harry finishes his chip. "Harder to see it in yourself, I think." It's the only explanation he has for any of it. For why good people like George are falling prey to Marchbanks' fearmongering. He wipes his hands on a paper napkin. "They think they're doing all of this for good. So did some of Voldemort's people. They thought they were protecting our way of life, and they got tangled up with someone who just wanted power." He thinks of Draco, of Narcissa, of how they'd once gone along with rhetoric they'd been convinced was true. Was right. George and Percy aren't so very different. "It's not that they're intrinsically bad, all of of Marchbanks' supporters. It's just easy to fall under the thrall of someone like her, someone who's promising to protect you from the bogeyman, from whatever's lurking in the shadows to ruin you, your family, whatever. Whether it's a Muggleborn or a Death Eater's son." 

Everyone's afraid of something, after all. Harry looks down at his hands, at the tiny bit of ink that shifts under his shirt cuff. _Some of us,_ he thinks a bit grimly, _might just be afraid of ourselves._

Ron's silent, looking down at his greasy plate, at the shredded cod and the chips chilling against the bright green mush of his peas. "I reckon," he says, his voice a quiet huff against the clatter of the shop behind them, "we're all going to get caught in this, one way or another. And maybe the only way out is through it all, you know? Maybe Britain just has to see how awful it could be to be glad of what we've had these past few years." He looks over at Harry. "Doesn't make any of it less shit, though, does it?"

"Not really," Harry says.

Ron gives him a faint smile. He leans back, his elbow on the countertop. "Well, it's not as if we didn't handle that slit-nosed bastard when we were back in school. Griselda Marchbanks and her lot can't be that much worse."

Except Harry thinks maybe they might be. Outright evil's easy to resist, easy to denounce. It's when it's hidden beneath the veneer of banal respectability that it becomes harder to fight, to recognise even, in one's day to day life. 

He doesn't say that to Ron though. Harry's only starting to realise that truth himself. Maybe it's the part of himself which might have Sorted Slytherin. Maybe it's just that he's been around Draco and Parkinson and Zabini so much these past months. But the world's far less black and white to Harry; he's all too aware of the greys surrounding him, of the ways those areas, those beliefs, those fears can be manipulated for better or worse, by people who always assume they've the good of the world in mind. 

And maybe it's that certainty, that belief that one knows best for others that opens doors best left closed. That silences others' voices in favour of one's own. That makes morality absolute, that refuses to recognise the fallibility of humankind. 

Harry'd once held those same beliefs. Sometimes he's wondered if he'd been wrong to let them go. And then he thinks of Draco, and the way he's struggled to become a better man whilst still being true to himself, to his own faults and virtues. And for all that Harry's the Chosen One, the fucking Saviour of the Wizarding World, he's certain that Draco's the stronger one in the end. He's had to fight himself to know who he is. Harry's never been brave enough to do that. 

A tourist family bursts through the chippy door, all flat voices and denim-clad; the father hurries his kids along, and when he turns to say something to his wife, Harry catches sight of a Canadian flag stitched onto his black backpack. He wonders what Canada's like. Cold, Harry suspects, and filled with polar bears or some such. Harry's never really thought of it much. 

He looks back at Ron. "We'll be fine," he says, and he shifts on his stool, bumps his elbow against Ron's. "You're right. We lived through Snakeface." His smile's thin. A bit wavery. "This is just posturing. Political rubbish." 

"It might mean nothing." Ron pushes his plate away. "It might be that Kingsley'll stay in office."

Neither of them think that'll happen. But still, Harry nods. "We'll laugh about all this a few weeks down the road. Tell ourselves we lost our minds." Christ, but Harry wishes he could believe himself. "Worked ourselves up over nothing, yeah?"

"Yeah," Ron says faintly. 

But deep down inside, they both know the truth. They've lived through the world turning upside down before, after all. They know the signs. 

And, now Harry's an adult, now he knows what all of this truly means, how quickly all their lives could shift, change, implode, he's never been so fucking terrified in his life.

***

Althea's sat at the table in Pansy's kitchen, still in her purple plaid pyjama trousers and a plain white camisole despite it being almost two in the afternoon. She counts today as a good day; she's at least managed to get out of bed and shower, washing her hair in the process. She's starting to appreciate her newly shorn locks; they certainly dry faster than they had when her hair had hung down past her shoulder blades. It still feels odd, though. Althea expects to feel the weight of her braid against her back, expects to brush a stray lock out of her face. Instead she slicks her dark hair back with a bit of pomade Pansy had picked up for her at the chemist down the street that smells like almonds and vanilla. The starkness of the style makes Althea's eyes look huge, her cheekbones sharp, and as much as Althea tells herself hates it, she's getting used to her new self in the mirror, to the androgyny of her narrow face that she's also starting to like, not that she'd admit that to anyone else.

Sunlight streams through the half-open kitchen window, along with the soundtrack of Camden that's also starting to be familiar to Althea. She's been here in Pansy's flat just over a week, and it surprises her how comfortable she is in a place that's not her own. Still, she'll have to leave it soon enough. The Healers are starting to make noises about her going back to work again, which is a relief. Althea's missed her team, missed her incident room, missed her daily tea and pumpkin pasty from Margaret's cart. She's ready to be back on official duty, even if she's restricted to a desk. Anything's better than being stuck in her pyjamas for half the day, bored out of her mind. 

At least she'd had her father bring over some things from her flat this weekend. One of which was the small box she kept important papers in. Papers like the small journal she's holding now, its edges crisp with age. The journal she'd taken out of her mother's safety deposit box at Barclay's all those weeks ago. Back in the middle of August. Back before Thibodaux. Back before she'd been hurt. 

Her head throbs. Pansy'll have a fit if she catches Althea here. She's supposed to be in bed, resting, but Althea can't bear another nap, no matter how tired she might be. She wants to go out for a run or at least to a pilates class to stretch her muscles that feel too tight, too atrophied from a month in bed. 

Althea turns the journal between her palms. She'd almost forgotten about it; her memories are still a little piecemeal at times. But she'd known the minute she'd opened the box what it was, where she'd found it. The leather binding's worn; the journal itself is only a bit larger than Althea's hand. It's the sort of thing one might find in a Muggle stationer's at King's Cross or tucked away in the back of Waterstones in the journals and diaries section with the novelty items and tote bags. She wonders if that's where her mother had purchased it; nothing about the journal points to it having a wizarding origin. There aren't even any warding charms on it. 

But there wouldn't need to be, would there? Not with the code her mother had written in, a mishmash of letters and what look like a cross between the Greek alphabet and curious little hieroglyphs her mother had made up herself. Or at least, Althea assumes she had. She's never encountered anything like this before, and she wonders if she should bring the journal to Padma to look at. Maybe she could break it.

Except Althea's not so certain she should get anyone else mixed up in this. In whatever it was her mother had been investigating. 

Althea opens the journal, frowns down at the code. She recognises fragments. Her mother's word for _family._ Another for _work._ Althea traces a finger over the strokes of ink. They're one of the few connections she has left to her mother. She can almost see Clio bent over their own kitchen table, in a flat not much larger than this one, hard at work, a smudge of ink on her finger because she refused to use Mitchell's clunky beige computer. Everything she submitted to the _Prophet_ was handwritten first, then typed out on the ancient typewriter she'd haul out from its place on the bookcase, setting it up on the table with a placemat beneath it. 

"I miss you," Althea murmurs. "Life would be rather different if you were still around."

The Floo flares in the living room; Althea can hear the jangle of the Floo bell and the whoosh of the hearth. She closes the journal hurriedly, slides it beneath a copy of _Witch Weekly_ Pansy's been reading at breakfast, purportedly to mock it, but Althea knows Pansy's intrigued by the makeup tips and the celebrity gossip, as much as she claims not to be. 

"You're back early," Althea calls out, pushing herself up out of her chair. She winces at the suddenness of the movement. She still has to be careful when standing up or she'll go completely lightheaded. 

But the steps in the hallway aren't Pansy's light taps. They're heavier, more solid, and Althea's skin prickles with alarm. Her wand's back in her bedroom, and there's no time for her to run for it, even if she could do more than hobble. She reaches back behind her, grabs a knife from the wooden block on the counter, holding it up in a defensive position. She was good at hand-to-hand combat in Auror training, even if she hasn't had to use it frequently since. 

The kitchen door swings open, and Althea crouches, ready to lunge. 

Until Tony bloody Goldstein appears, looking calm and collected. "Put the knife down, Whitaker," he says with a faint quirk of his mouth. "Although I'm pleased to see you're up for defending yourself."

Althea's fingers tighten around the knife hilt. "Pansy's not here." She doesn't trust Goldstein. Not entirely. He's an Unspeakable, after all, and, Granger and Malfoy possibly excepted, they're all a dodgy sort. 

"I'm not here to see Pansy." Goldstein walks over to the refrigerator like he bloody owns the fucking flat. Althea tracks him with the tip of the knife, frowning as he reaches in, pulls out a blue glass bottle of still water. He closes the refrigerator, turns as he uncaps the bottle. He leans against the counter as he takes a drink, watching her. "I thought we should talk."

"About?" Althea doesn't lower the knife. Goldstein only looks amused, and that irritates Althea more than she wants to admit. "Look, I might be an invalid, but I could still take you--"

Goldstein flicks his fingers her way, and the knife wrenches from her fingers, goes sailing across the kitchen to land back in its slot in the wooden block. He raises an eyebrow. "You're still mending," he says, his voice gentle. "And I'm not here to hurt you. I want to talk about Pansy."

"What about her?" Althea's still wary, but she's feeling tired again. She moves towards the table, catching herself on the back of a chair when she wobbles a bit. Goldstein watches her carefully, but thank Circe he doesn't offer to help her. Althea wouldn't be able to stand that. She eases herself back into the chair. Fuck, but she wishes she had her wand with her. 

Just in case.

Goldstein takes another drink from the bottle of water, and then he walks over, sits across from Althea. He's silent for a long moment, and then he says, "Pansy likes you."

"We're friends," Althea agrees, and she's surprised when Goldstein looks up at her and laughs. 

"No," he says. "She _likes_ you." He runs a hand through his sandy hair, and somehow it stays perfectly coiffed. He must have a few setting charms on those thick locks, and Althea's only a bit jealous of his vanity. "Merlin, I sound like I'm back in Hogwarts." Goldstein sighs, leans forward, his elbows resting on the table. "I've known Pansy most of my life. Our mothers can't decide if they loathe or love each other, and to be honest, I think it's a bit of both. As much as they both protest, if I'd asked Pansy to marry me instead of Eva, they'd have been thrilled. But I didn't, and…" He trails off, lifts the water to his mouth. 

Althea frowns at him. "What does this have to do with me?"

"Everything." Goldstein gives her a small, tight smile. "What I'm trying to say is that I know Pansy better than I know most people. And I've seen the way she looks at you, like you're something new and exciting she wants to play with." He sets his bottle down on the table, but he uses one of the coasters Pansy leaves lying about rather than setting it on the wood directly. He's right, Althea thinks. He does know Pansy well. 

"So?" Althea feels her cheeks warm. "It's nothing. She feels sorry for me."

Goldstein snorts. "She bloody well fancies you."

Althea's whole face feels as if it's on fire now. "That's bollocks."

"Is it?"

All Goldstein does is raise an eyebrow, and Althea has to look away, her heart beating madly. It's cruel of Goldstein to do this, to mock Althea with her most secret desire. It surprises her that he'd do this, but then again, perhaps not. Men can, at times, be irritating when it comes to their interest in her sex life. She presses her lips together, folds her arms across her chest. 

"Pansy's straight," Althea says. "As you well know." She tries to keep the stiffness from her voice; she doesn't manage it in the least. 

Goldstein just studies her before he leans back in his chair and sighs. "Pansy's whatever the bloody hell she wants to be. It's one of her more charming personality traits, whatever Camilla might say. And I'm not an idiot, Whitaker. I know what I see."

Althea twists her fingers in the thin cotton of her camisole. She feels at a disadvantage, sat here in her pyjamas with not even a bra on, whilst Goldstein's across from her in a proper suit and tie. Still, she looks at him, takes in the openness of his face, as she realises he's not lying. He's telling the truth as he knows it at least, whether or not he's fucking mistaken. She's silent for a moment, and then she says, "So you're telling me to piss off, is it?"

"Far from it." The smile Goldstein gives her is hesitant, almost uncertain. "Look, if I did, that'd only set Pans off. Doesn't like to be ordered about, that one." He rubs his fingertips over the bridge of his nose, pinching the end. "I know you fancy her as well. She'll figure it out soon enough--" He breaks off as Althea pushes her chair back. 

"No." Althea presses her palms against the table, uses them to leverage herself out of the chair. "I'm not having this discussion--"

"When else are we going to have it?" Goldstein's voice is sharp. "Do you know what's fucking coming towards us? Marchbanks is going to win this battle she's in with Shacklebolt. She has the support of at least two-thirds of the Wizengamot now, if not more. Public opinion is backing her, thanks to the sodding _Prophet_ , which has as much journalistic integrity lately as the fucking _News of the World_ \--"

"Less," Althea says, surprised that Tony Goldstein's that knowledgeable about Muggle newspapers. "But what the hell does any of that have to do with you and Pansy?" Or me, she wants to add, but she can't. Gooseflesh breaks out across her arms; she folds them closer to her body again, trying to ward off the chill from the kitchen window. Outside someone shouts across the street, a lorry horn blares in response. 

Goldstein exhales. He looks down at his hands, folded on the tabletop. He doesn't answer at first, and then he looks up at her, his face grim. "Terry Parkinson has financial ties to known Death Eaters. Substantial ones, from before the war and after."

"So do a lot of people." Althea finds herself sitting again, as much as she'd rather order Goldstein out of the flat. 

"Yes," Goldstein agrees. "But with the Parkinsons…" He chews on his lip, his shoulders slumping. "The Department of Mysteries has known about Terry for a while, at least the corner I'm in. I've done everything I can to protect that family, but with the political shakeup that's about to happen, I don't think I'll be able to much longer." He looks over at Althea. "And I'd say Marchbanks' Government isn't going to be the kind that's careful about not passing down the sins of the father on his daughter--either one of them."

Althea smoothes her ragged fringe back from her forehead. "Daisy's already under suspicion with the Americans."

Goldstein nods. "Not to mention that bastard husband of hers. And to be honest, both you and Pans aren't going to be exempt from your association with your guv. I've heard rumblings already about him. Marchbanks is furious with Potter for standing up to her. She's not going to ignore that when they make her Minister." 

He's right. Althea knows he is, as much as she'd rather not think of it. She's seen the _Prophet_ from this weekend, as as much as she respects the guv for what he did, it was fucking foolish of him. He's made himself a sitting duck, and the whole lot of them with him. 

"So what do you want from me?" Althea asks. "You're the Unspeakable."

"And you're the one with Pansy's ear right now." Goldstein meets her gaze evenly. "Maybe I ought to see you as competition, but it's more important to me that our girl's safe. I want you to help me with that." He hesitates, then adds, "If you will."

Of course she's going to. Althea knows that. Something warm and tight expands in her chest as she draws in a slow breath. Althea doesn't want to look too closely at it, but she also doesn't push away the featherlight fluttering of feelings. Doesn't deny they're there. She can't any longer. "I'd never let her be hurt," she says finally.

"I know." 

She and Goldstein regard each other across the kitchen table. This feels important, Althea thinks. She knows what Pansy means to him. What he's been willing to risk for her. Althea understands that. She might have done it as well. "What do we do now?" she asks, her voice quiet. 

"Trust each other, I suppose." Goldstein looks a bit uncertain. "Figure out what we need to do to keep her safe."

Althea rubs her elbow. "She's stubborn. Are you expecting her to leave the country?" To be honest, Althea's not certain she could convince Pansy to do that. Not if either of her parents were in danger. And Althea understands that as well. She'd have a hard time leaving her father behind to save herself. 

"I don't know." Goldstein's silent. He shifts in his chair, then exhales in a rough, quick huff before he digs in his jacket pocket. Pulls out a small, brown envelope. He pushes it across the table towards Althea. 

She takes it, curious. Opens it up and peers inside before looking back up at Goldstein in surprise. "What's this?" Althea pulls out a stack of brightly coloured Muggle bank notes.

"You might need it," Goldstein says. "I want you to keep it tucked away in case you have to leave quickly. It's enough to last a few months in the Muggle world. Set you up, at least." 

Althea flicks through the stack. It's a good fifteen thousand pounds at least. Maybe more. "You think we'll have to disappear."

Goldstein shrugs. He's trying hard to keep himself in check, to seem calm and unbothered. Althea can tell that much. It's all rubbish, of course. Goldstein's wound tightly, and that worries Althea more than anything else. "I want you to take care of her if I can't." Goldstein looks down again, his gaze fixed on his hands. He flattens his fingers against the smooth walnut of the table. "Promise me you will."

The silence between them stretches out. Althea watches Goldstein, studying him until he glances up at her. There's something in his eyes that she recognises, a bright desperation that echoes her own fears about the future. Impetuously, she reaches across the table, curls her hands around his. 

"Whatever I have to do." Althea's fingers tighten over Goldstein's. They're warm. Trembling. "I promise." 

"Thank you." Goldstein's voice is rough, hoarse. He looks away, but he turns his hands beneath hers, gripping her fingers tightly before pulling back. They sit together, awkward and unspeaking. The stack of bank notes lies between them. 

And then Goldstein stands. He smoothes down his suit jacket, takes a deep breath. "I should go," he says. He doesn't quite look at Althea, but she doesn't mind. She knows how much this conversation has cost him. 

She wishes she could tell him that she respects him for having the nerve to come here, to ask her for help. Althea isn't certain she could have done the same if the tables were turned. Part of her thinks she's mad to have agreed, to have admitted--however indirectly--that she's feelings of some sort for Pansy. Goldstein could destroy her if he wanted to. Althea's quite aware of that. And she wonders if she shouldn't hate him, just for being her rival for Pansy's affections. Except that sounds so ridiculously Victorian, and Pansy's a bloody grown woman who can make up her own mind about who she wants. And if that's Goldstein over Althea, so be it. He's not the worst sort, Althea thinks. And whilst she might not be interested in men, she can see why Pansy might find Goldstein attractive. 

"You're a good man, Tony," Althea says before she can stop herself. "For an Unspeakable, at least." It might not be a statement his soon-to-be ex-wife or her family would agree with, but it's not as if Althea can cast too many aspersions on his affair with Pansy. Not when Pansy'd been a willing participant herself. Perhaps Althea wouldn't have done it herself, but she wasn't in either of their shoes, was she? 

Goldstein looks up at Althea, his eyes widening for a fraction of a second before he smiles at her, full and warm and genuine this time. "You're not a bad sort yourself, Althea." He picks up the bottle of water he'd taken from the refrigerator. "I'm glad she has you."

Althea half-thinks he means it. 

She watches as Goldstein walks out of the kitchen, hears him open the Floo. There's a rush of sound and a rattle, and then silence. Althea sits at the kitchen table, unmoving, until she reaches for the stack of notes. They're cool and crisp against her palm; Goldstein must have just exchanged Galleons for them at Gringotts. They've still the feel of notes that have been bound by a paper wrapper, notes that are straight from Her Majesty's Treasury. Althea lifts them to her nose, breathes the ink and paper in. They smell fresh and clean. 

Fifteen thousand pounds. "Merlin," she murmurs, and she knows Goldstein must trust her if he's handing over a nest egg like this. What that means, she's not certain. 

Perhaps he's just paying her off, her cynical side thinks. But that isn't what it'd felt like. Goldstein's worried about Pansy. Which doesn't set Althea at ease. Still she'd promised to protect Pansy, and she will. However her battered body is able. 

Althea pushes herself out of her chair. She picks up the notes, slides her mother's journal out from beneath the _Witch Weekly_. Things feel like they're spinning out of control around her, and Althea's never been good with uncertainty. She looks down at the journal, her thumb sliding under the cover, flipping it half-open to reveal her mother's writing. This is important. Althea knows it is; her mother wouldn't have hidden it away in Barclay's if it weren't. And there's only one person she knows who can help her read it. She's just not certain her dad's up to it. 

Still, Althea finds herself reaching for the mobile that's on the kitchen counter. She rings her father up; it goes to his voice mail. "Hi, Dad," she says. "Just wanted to check in with you about things. Ring me up when you've a chance? Love you."

She rings off, a bit uneasily. Mitchell always answers his mobile when she calls. Or he does lately, that is. Before, back when things were bad, he'd ignore her nights he'd gone down the pub. But he's not drinking now. He'd promised her that, and Althea believes him. She has to. She hasn't anything more in her to help her father if he's gone back to the whisky again. 

Althea takes a wobbly step, steadying herself on the back of a chair. And then she makes her way to her bedroom. Closes the door behind her. She opens the wardrobe, pulls out the small satchel her father'd brought her clothes over in. There's an extendable charm on the bottom; she pushes her arm down as far as she can, searching for the pocket on the side, the one she's warded from everyone but her. Her fingers find the edge, and she works it open, slipping the money and the journal inside. She zips the satchel back up, closes the wardrobe. 

Somehow makes it to the bed where she sits on the edge, trying to breathe past the tightness in her chest. 

Everything's spinning around her, fast and quick, almost enough to make her sick up. Althea leans forward, lets her head hang between her knees. Tries to inhale. She can feel the pulse of blood through her veins, the sudden clench of fear in her gut. 

"It's fine," Althea whispers, and she sits back up, lets herself fall against the stack of pillows at the head of the bed. She pulls her knees to her chest. Closes her eyes. "It's all going to be fine."

But she knows damned well that's a bloody fucking lie.

***

It's raining at Oudepoort. Not that you'd know it in the middle of the prison yard, really. Despite being outdoors, the yard's covered by some sort of Impervious Charm built into the wards, and the rain bounces off it, sheets of water rolling over the side, down the chain link fence separating the yard from the wide expanse of flat grassland that stretches across to the treeline.

Draco isn't used to it being this warm and humid in autumn. Jonks tells him it's the last bit of summer pressing through before the crisp chill of October settles across upstate New York. Draco wishes it'd come on; he's sweating like a fucking Hippogriff with his jumpsuit buttoned up around him as he plays a makeshift, modified round of Quodpot with Bobby, Jonks and their mates. Without magic, it's a bit ridiculous, really. Instead of sweeping across the yard on brooms, trying to send the quod into a pot of potion before it explodes, they're all just throwing what looks like a smushed quaffle about, running from one end of the yard into the other whilst attempting to toss the scrap of ruched leather into a netted hoop. 

Still, Draco's picked the gist of the game up quickly enough, and there's something to be said for the rush of adrenaline through his body as he runs and dodges and catches the quod Bobby throws his way. He jumps up, towards the hoop, and he's rewarded with the swish of the netting as the quod zips through it. 

"Not bad, Blondie," Jonks calls from across the yard, and Bobby thumps Draco on the back as he whoops. 

"In your face, assholes," Bobby shouts towards the other team, his arms flung out. He bobs his head forward, looking like a half-mad chicken as he does. "We got us a real Quodpot genius, yeah!"

Bobby's been in a mood the past few days; Draco's not certain why, but he's been a bit wilder than usual, a bit more willing to get into people's faces. When Draco'd asked Jonks, he'd just shrugged, said the infirmary'd put Bobby on a new potion routine. It'd surprised Draco; he hadn't thought about medications in prison, although he supposes there'd have to be some way of administering them. Magic doesn't cure every ailment, and even in Hogwarts there'd been students who'd had to show up to Madam Pomfrey every week or so for a dosage. Vince had been one; Draco'd never asked what the potion was for. That would have been impolite, and Vince was the type who would have told him to sod off if he had. Secretly, Draco'd wondered if Vince had swung to the Squib side; there were potions that could enhance the magical abilities of witches and wizards who had difficulties, and the Crabbes would have paid whatever they needed to for Vince if that were the case. 

He wonders what Bobby's taking. Not a Squib sort of potion, obviously. The whole point of Oudepoort is to dampen their magical abilities. It must be something else, but Draco hadn't pushed Jonks about that. He might be an adult now, but that'd still be horribly graceless.

Draco wipes the back of his hand across his forehead. It's barely mid-morning, and he feels like he needs another shower. At least he's not in the laundry right now; rumour has it there's some sort of big muckety-muck touring the prison today, so the prisoners have been spread out in some sort of attempt to make it look as if the whole lot of them isn't being used for forced labour. Whatever. Draco won't complain. Out here, he at least has the scent of fresh air and wet earth, or some semblance thereof, to remind him that, as much as MACUSA might try to cage him, they'll never truly succeed. Not as long as Harry knows where to find him. 

Jonks is racing down the yard again, the quod tucked beneath his arm. He spins away from a wiry teenager, throws the quod towards Nikolai, another member of their team. "Set it up," Jonks shouts, and Bobby's headed across the yard, his hands raised. 

"Bring it here, Nik--" Bobby pushes a foot against the brick wall of the prison, leaping up to grab the quod as Nikolai sends it arcing his way. 

Jasper Durant's clapping from the sidelines, sat on one of the benches hooked into the prison bricks. He'd claimed to be too fucking old to join in on their match. Draco thinks it's more that he doesn't want to be shown up by a young bull like Nikolai. Status means something inside Oudepoort's walls, and Draco's starting to understand not only the respect Jasper's earned in here but also how that might protect him. Paulie and his boys haven't come near him since last week; Draco's fairly certain Jasper gave them a talking to. 

"Take it on down, son," Jasper shouts, and Draco runs backwards a foot or two, holding steady in case Bobby sends the quod his way.

He needn't have worried. Bobby stops mid-yard, and he throws the quod towards the basket, sending it flying through the hoop. "Fuck you, bastards," Bobby shouts, his eyes half-wild. Everyone around them roars--everyone, that is, except the opposing team. 

And Draco. He's worried about Bobby. There's something not right about him this morning. Something that's setting Draco on edge, making the back of his head ache. He knows Jonks can feel it too; Jonks keeps close to Bobby, but his gaze slides over to Draco from time to time, almost as if he wants to say something to Draco, wants to know if Draco sees Bobby too. Draco looks Jonks' way now, the muscles between his shoulder blades prickling with something he can't explain. Jonks is watching Bobby, but he must feel Draco's gaze; he turns his head, catches Draco's eye. 

_All right?_ Draco mouths, and Jonks shrugs, his large, bald head swing back Bobby's way. Bobby's prancing towards the other team, taunting them, questioning the size of their pricks. If he's not careful someone's going to take him out, Draco thinks, and Circe only knows how Jasper'll respond to that. 

"Fucker," one of the men near Draco mutters, and he pushes past Draco, knocking Draco's shoulder with his. Draco thinks about grabbing him, slamming him up against the chain link fence, but what the fuck good would that do? Draco'd probably just end up on the floor of the showers with a fucking shiv stuck out of him, his blood washing down the drain. 

It'd happened just Sunday to another bloke, after all, and the guards hadn't found him until it was too late. No one's mourning him, though, not openly. Draco'd heard whispers that Paulie's lot were behind it. It wouldn't surprise him. They're a nasty sort, those bastards. He touches his nose. It barely hurts now, thanks to the potions the infirmary had given him on Saturday; his face is still a bit bruised, but the swelling's gone down, and he can breathe again. He won't look a complete fright the next time Picquery shows up to see him. If he hasn't scared her off. He hasn't heard from his solicitor--or lawyer, he supposes would be the correct term here--since she'd left him with instructions for Garcia to have him patched up. He wonders if she's just taken Olivia Zabini's retainer and fucked off. To be honest, he wouldn't blame her.

Draco tugs his orange jumpsuit away from his chest. It's streaked with sweat. The others around him have already stripped down; Bobby's bare chest is gleaming and damp. The most Draco's done is pull his hair back, loose wisps sticking to his cheeks and neck. It hasn't helped ease the heat that prickles across Draco's skin, and Draco's done with it all. Without thought, he unbuttons his jumpsuit, sliding his pasty arms out, and then rolling it down to his waist, over his white undershirt, securing it in place by tying the sleeves in back. He's instantly cooler, and he runs towards Bobby and Jonks. "Block him," he calls out, pointing towards one of the burlier blokes heading their way, the quod in his hands. 

Jonks sidesteps the fellow, sending him sprawling across the pavement, and the quod tumbles towards Draco, who scoops it up, racing towards their basket. He slams it in, and the quod flies through, bouncing against the ground as Draco turns around, arms up in the air in delight. 

"Brilliant," Draco says, and then he draws up short. The others are looking at him, their gazes fixed on Draco's forearm and the scarred, twisted Mark. Draco's hands fall to his sides, his fists clenched, and he thinks about pulling his jumpsuit back up, hiding away the smear of Dark magic that still hovers beneath his skin. He's far thinner than he'd been before he'd landed in Thibodaux, and the scar tissue stands out more against his wiry arm. Draco rubs his palm over it, looking around at the faces watching him. "What?"

Jonks and Bobby turn away first. "Nah, man," Bobby says, tossing the quod between his hands. "We're just here to play Quodpot." He doesn't look at Draco. 

Nikolai, on the hand, stares at Draco, his eyes narrowed. "You in a gang, English?" he asks, coming towards Draco, his chest puffed out like a bantam rooster. "That some sort of fucked-up shit on your arm?"

Draco shrugs. "In a way." He studies Nikolai. Nice enough lad, but he is just a lad, barely old enough to be out of school as far as Draco can tell. Still, he's here because he used a Killing Curse on his little sister's fifteen-year-old boyfriend who'd been bragging about shagging her in an alley behind the building that housed their tiny flat. He'd left the boy lying sprawled lifeless in a pile of rubbish and piss; the rats had eaten most of his face away before the NYPD had found him. From what Draco's heard, it'd taken five Aurors to bring Nikolai in. He'd been half out of his mind when they'd finally caught him. Draco knows full well that Nikolai could snap again. Rumour has it he's one of the prisoners who's hidden a shiv beneath his mattress. Just in case he needs it one day. 

Really, it might not be a bad thing for Nikolai to think of Draco as dangerous. 

And given the way Nikolai's head has started to bob, Draco thinks he's on score with that assessment. "Cool, man," Nikolai says, and he claps Draco's shoulder before turning around. "Bobby, throw that shit back onto the court."

The others move away from Draco, but he still gets some sideways glances. He rubs his palms against his trousers, takes a deep breath and follows. Draco's stomach flutters a bit, but no one says anything else to him. Instead, he gets a few nods from some of the fellows, and that oddly relaxes him. It's not that unusual to have a Mark like his, he supposes. At least not in Oudepoort.

With a whoop, Bobby tosses the quod back into the scrum of men, and the match is back on. Draco throws himself into the fray; there's something almost soothing about the slam of bodies against his, the pounding of his feet against the asphalt of the yard as he runs for the basket, the beads of sweat that slide down his back from the nape of his neck. It's not quite as good as a run through London, but Draco's missed the burn of exercise. He'll feel this tomorrow in his muscles, but he doesn't care. Right now, at this moment, with endorphins racing through his body, Draco feels utterly glorious. 

Until, that is, the door to the yard opens up. There's a shift to the air around them; the guards, who've been slouching against the fence, stand up straight, their hands settling over the hilts of their wands in their hip holsters. Draco's feet stumble; he catches himself against Jonks' elbow as the warden walks out in his tailored grey suit, his white hair bright against the dirty red of the prison bricks. Another man follows, taller, with narrow, sloped shoulders and a thick, full head of silvery hair. His suit is better than the warden's. More expensive. Definitely bespoke, Draco thinks, given the lines of that jacket, the way it fits the man's arms, leaving the perfect glimpse of white shirt cuff visible. 

And then the man looks his way. An angular face, long and thin, wrinkles settled in the corners of his dark brown eyes. Draco knows that face. 

Aldric sodding Yaxley. In the flesh. 

"That's the Old Man," Nikolai murmurs from behind Draco. He shifts from foot to foot. "My pop worked for him for years. What's he doing here?"

Draco's breath catches as Yaxley turns to the warden, says something they can't hear. The warden just nods, snaps his fingers, and one of the guards steps forward as the warden bends his head his way.

"He's the bigwig who's been brought around today?" Bobby sounds a bit taken aback. "Looks like one of them whiny city fuckers to me. What's the warden doing kissing his ass?"

Nikolai's shaking his head. "You don't cross him," he says, his voice grim. "Everybody back home knows that. You end up…' He trails off, but he drags his finger over his throat, still looking towards Yaxley. "If you do what you're supposed to do, you get taken care of."

Draco looks over at Nikolai. "You ended up here."

"I fucked up, man,' Nikolai says. "Went off the goddamn deep end and got the cops looking into our shit. The Old Man didn't like that much." His voice quavers ever so slightly; he looks afraid. And when Yaxley looks back at their small, orange-suited throng, Nikolai pulls back, takes a step behind Jonks, who shifts in front of him, just enough to make a statement. 

But it's not Nikolai that the guard calls over. "59304!" He points towards Draco, crooks his finger. "Over here, Johnny."

Draco doesn't want to move. He looks over to the side of the yard, towards Jasper Durant as if Jasper could do a damned thing to save him right now. Jasper just eyes him, his face shuttered, mouth tight. Draco draws in a slow breath, takes a step towards the guard. The men behind him shift, muttering softly. Draco's not certain if they have his back or are just grateful he's the one being called over, not them. 

It feels as if it takes an eternity to walk to the guard. "Warden wants to have a word," the guard says, and Draco just nods. His throat's dry. He tries to swallow, but it doesn't help. He follows the guard towards the warden and Yaxley, his prison-issue trainers dragging over the faded paint of the concrete. He rubs a thumb over his knuckle, presses down to crack it, a small comfort that reminds him of that year in the Manor with the Dark Lord, the fear that had pounded through him when he'd encountered men like Yaxley in the halls of his home. He remembers Yaxley's son, Corban, the arrogant bastard the Dark Lord had set as Head of the DMLE, and the way that Yaxley--younger than this man in front of him but so oddly similar--had walked through the Manor, his face set in fury and disdain whenever he'd encountered any member of Draco's family. 

Save for Aunt Bella, that is. She'd been the only one who'd commanded any respect from the other Death Eaters that final year. 

Draco stops in front of the warden; he refuses to look over at Yaxley. "Sir," he says, his voice tense. 

"Prisoner 59304-A-23." The warden's gaze is sharp, knowing. "Our visitor here's interested in what crime's put you behind our bars." His fingers drum lightly against the side of his thigh; the guard unsnaps his wand holster as Draco moves closer. Draco pretends not to notice. 

Instead, he smiles, quick and tight. Draco knows better than to fall for that question. If he admits the truth, he'll be punished for lying. "Poor choices," he says after a moment, and he lets his gaze flick towards Yaxley. "One might say I had the temerity to be in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Yaxley's eyes crinkle more deeply at the corners. "Isn't that a pity." The crisp British lilt to his voice sounds odd now to Draco's ear. It makes Draco viciously homesick. They look at each other for a moment, and then Yaxley glances at the warden. "James, might I have a private word with our young prisoner here? I'm rather interested in how we might support offenders of his youth and circumstance. Rehabilitation, not punishment, eh?"

The warden looks annoyed, but he nods. "I suppose a moment or two won't put us off our schedule."

"Excellent." Yaxley's hand settles on Draco's back. "If you will?"

As though Draco has a choice. He allows Yaxley to lead him a few feet away, closer to the chain link fence than to the wall of the prison. Yaxley digs in his suit pocket, pulls out a thin silver cigarette holder and taps a fag out into his palm. He offers it to Draco, who shakes his head. "No?" Yaxley seems amused. "I'd have thought it'd be some sort of currency in here. Or so the cinema might lead one to think." He slides the holder back into his pocket, then takes out a lighter. A flick of the silver lever, and he's lighting the cigarette, taking a long, even drag before blowing the smoke out, just past Draco's face. 

Draco doesn't flinch. 

"Good lad," Yaxley says. He's looking at Draco, taking in his rumpled hair, the jumpsuit folded down around his waist. "I must say you look like utter shit, Mr Malfoy."

The use of his name startles Draco. It's not as if he's not aware that Yaxley knows who he is. Of course he does. They've met already, back during the summer in Tom Graves' office, and it's not as if Yaxley doesn't know Draco's family. He'd made that much clear back in July. Besides, Draco's bloody certain the warden fucking knows exactly who he is, and perhaps some of the guards. MACUSA could wipe him from their system, but only by so much. 

But it's more Yaxley's open use of his surname that unsettles Draco more than anything. Hearing it spoken aloud for the first time in weeks feels odd. Not even Jasper Durant will call Draco by his real name. He knows better. 

Yaxley doesn't seem to give a damn. He just watches Draco, as if entertained by Draco's unease, by the way Draco's gaze flicks towards the warden, who's acting as if he's not paying attention. Draco stays silent, his fists clenched at his side. Yaxley's gaze drifts down; he reaches out, papery, thin fingers curling around Draco's wrist. He pulls Draco's forearm forward, looks down at the Mark. A look of something--Draco can't place it, not really--shifts across his face. His mouth tightens; he lifts the cigarette to his lips again, inhaling deeply. The huff of smoke on his exhale blows across Draco's skin, over the slick, twisted flesh of his scar, the dark outlines of the Mark itself. "I'd wondered," Yaxley says, his voice quiet, "if you'd taken it as well." He looks up at Draco. "Was it willingly?"

No, Draco wants to say, but that's not entirely true. His jaw works for a moment, and then he admits, "It was expected of me."

"Ah." Yaxley smoothes a thumb over the scar. Draco's skin prickles. It takes all of his determination not to jerk away from the touch. "Your father, then." 

Draco's mouth tightens a tiny fraction. 

"It was the same with my son," Yaxley says, almost sympathetically. His fingers slide away. Draco's hand falls back to his side. "Except Corban became a true believer. Perhaps even more so than I." 

"You did run to America." Draco's voice cracks. He resists the urge to fold his arms across his chest, as if for some sort of protection. "Even before the Dark Lord disappeared." Before Harry defeated him that first time, as a tiny baby. Draco still doesn't understand that. He's not certain he ever will. 

"One does try to save one's children." Yaxley raises an eyebrow. "I understand you've met Astrid as well."

Draco licks his bottom lip. He's here because of Astrid Yaxley, although he supposes it's better than being dead. He gives Yaxley a tight, bitter smile. "She's a lovely girl. How proud you must be at her stomach for torture."

Yaxley chuckles. "I see what she likes in you. You're an interesting one, Mr Malfoy. I must say I continue to be intrigued." He takes another drag from his cigarette. His eyes are cool, distant as he watches Draco, flicks the ash from the tip of the fag. "Perhaps that might work in your favour one day. I am a man of influence, after all."

"Perhaps I'm not interested in that." Draco refuses to look away. 

"Oh, you will be." Yaxley smiles at him. It sends a shiver down Draco's spine. "I can make certain of that." He drops his cigarette to the ground, grinds it out with his heel. The white rolling paper's smeared with mud; Draco knows it won't much matter when Yaxley walks away. There'll be a small scrum for the last bit of that fag. Yaxley's right; little creature comforts like that are currency behind Oudepoort's walls. "There's always the possibility we'll speak further."

That's the last thing Draco wants. "It's brill being here, thanks." He spreads his arms out, looks around him at the chain link fence, the crumbling red brick of the prison wall. "What more could I want?"

Yaxley raises an eyebrow. "A myriad of things. Mr Potter, for one." His mouth twitches up at the corner when Draco takes a step back on his heel, unable to hide his dismay. Yaxley can't have known about them. Not all this time. But Yaxley's just watching Draco, his gaze keen. "Ah, but the whole of London's whispering about the two of you. You wouldn't know, I suppose.." Yaxley's smile widens, ever so slightly. "Mr Potter appears to have been rather public about your relationship whilst testifying in front of the Wizengamot recently."

Draco stills, a chill going through his body. He doesn't say a word, doesn't even blink. He can't let Yaxley know how that upsets him. It's not that he and Harry hadn't spoken of being public. But if Harry's hand was forced...Draco knows all too well that's not a good sign. 

"Interesting," Yaxley says, his gaze fixed on Draco, and Draco wonders what he means by that. But Yaxley just straightens his cuffs, smoothes down the front of his jacket. "Well. I've far more important things to do than to waste my day in this dreadful place." He glances around, his nostrils flaring as his gaze sweeps across the prison yard. "But I wanted the opportunity to see you." He looks back over at Draco. "And tend to some business interests of my own. It's been lovely, Mr Malfoy. Perhaps if I find myself in London one of these days, I might pop by your aunt's house. Give my regards to your charming mother--"

"Leave her out of this," Draco says, the harshness of his voice taking even him by surprise. 

Yaxley just laughs. Claps his hand against Draco's shoulder and squeezes. Hard enough to make Draco wince. "Oh, my lad. I'm afraid she's well in it all. No matter how you might try to keep her safe." His hand slides away; he turns back to the warden. "Back to your office, James? I'd rather like to try that bottle of Ogden's twenty-five you were speaking of."

Draco stays where he is, his fingers rubbing small circles against his aching shoulder. Yaxley glances back as the warden steps back through the door, a guard holding it open for the both of them. The look he gives Draco is calculated, curious. 

And then he's gone, and Draco's stood on the edge of the prison yard, his heart thudding against his chest. He draws in an unsteady breath, leans against the chain link fence. He can feel the ward thrumming through it; Draco knows if he stays too long, it'll burn his skin. But he needs this faint touch of magic, needs the grounding it gives him. His legs tremble; he finds himself sliding down into a crouch, his arms wrapped around his knees. 

Draco just tries to breathe. 

He stays there, trying not to shake, his fingers twisted in the thick orange cotton of his jumpsuit trousers. There are footsteps beside him; a pair of dirty grey trainers stops next to his feet. Draco's balance goes; his arse hits the concrete painfully. Draco barely notices.

"What'd that bastard say, Blondie?" Jasper squats beside him. "I ain't seen you this worked up before." 

Draco looks up. The others have gone back to Quodpot; the guards are slouched in a group together again. But Bobby's watching him from across the court, as is Jonks; neither of them seem that caught up in the match. Above the yard, the rain's tapered off; Draco catches a glimpse of blue sky through the thick grey clouds. He draws in an uneven breath. "I'm fine."

"Don't give me that crap." Jasper eases himself onto the ground, with only the smallest of grunts and a faint wince. "Hip's not that great," he says when Draco looks over at him. He gives Draco a half-smile. "Part of getting old, boy. You hit your sixties, the next thing you know you're shitting in ways you'd never expected." He stretches his legs out in front of him. "So what the fuck did Aldric goddamn Yaxley want with you?"

That takes Draco by surprise. "You know him."

Jasper looks away. "He's a fucker."

A silence falls between the two of them. There's something Jasper isn't saying, Draco can tell that even without his Legilimency. 

"You're afraid of him," Draco says after a long moment. 

Jasper's head comes up, sharp, his mouth a thin line. "Bullshit. I ain't afraid of anyone, much less that prissy-pants asshole." 

But Draco just looks at him, his gaze steady, and Jasper glances away again before heaving a sigh. 

"It ain't that." Jasper rubs his jaw. He looks tired. Old. He's quiet for a breath, and then he says, "I did some work years ago for that bastard." A muscle tightens in his jaw. "Still do, I guess."

Draco's gaze darts towards the Quodpot game, then back to Jasper. "In here?"

Jasper chews on the inside of his lip before he spits out, hitting a yellow wildflower that's pushed its way through the cement cracks in the yard. The wildflower bends at the force of Jasper's spittle, then bounces back up again. Draco's surprised that anything could survive out here in the prison yard. Men barely do, much less a tiny scrap of plant like this one. 

"Who do you think benefits from our little business here, Blondie?" Jasper sounds weary. "Jonks' wife pays one of Yaxley's guys a share of the profits. In return, if we get into trouble with the warden, we'll have some help from Yaxley's crew to smooth things over." He frowns over at Draco. "I thought our little situation with Leroy might be why the fucker showed up today, but seems I was wrong. What'd he want with you?"

Draco closes his eyes, suddenly tired. He hasn't slept well for the past few days; when he drifts off to sleep he can almost feel Harry, as if Harry's in the cell with him. It's ridiculous, Draco knows that. But he needs those moments, even if it's only his mind playing tricks on him. It's the closest he can be to his boyfriend. For now at least. He pulls his knees up to his chest, his worry rising about Harry, about whatever's happening in London. It must be bad if Yaxley's using it to taunt him. 

"Yaxley knows who I am," Draco says after a moment. He looks over at Jasper. "He knew my family years ago." Draco stretches out his Marked arm. "Same gang, as Nikolai'd say."

Jasper doesn't say anything. He just looks down at the Mark in all its mangled glory. "That's some Dark magic," he says finally. 

"Understatement." Draco doesn't bother to keep the bitterness from his voice. He folds his arm up against his chest. The one good thing about Oudepoort's magical dampening is that Draco can't feel the Mark, really. Not the way he had outside. Some days he almost forgets it exists. Even now, with the magic of the ward crackling against his back, he only just senses the Mark's burn. Almost as if it's a phantom pain, something his mind thinks he should remember. Something that doesn't entirely exist, except it does, and Draco knows that magic's still there, still buried within his flesh, as much as he hates it, wishes it would seep away. He bites his lip, worries it between his teeth. Merlin, he hates the way they feel, the slickness of them against his tongue without a decent cleansing charm. A Muggle toothbrush just isn't the same.. "I wasn't always on the side of light, Jasper." 

And how Draco regrets that. Wishes he'd made different decisions. Wishes he'd gone to Harry's side before things had gone so far out of control that Draco had no hope of escaping the lies and madness swirling around him, the mad rush of prejudiced power his father had thrown himself into. It'd killed Lucius in the end. Draco only hopes it doesn't destroy him as well. 

Jasper sighs again, shakes his head. "Blondie, that don't mean shit now, and you know it. Hell, none of us here got the right to claim sainthood. But calling us goddamn devils don't tell the whole story either, whatever mistakes we've made." He rests a hand on Draco's shoulder. It's different than Yaxley's touch. More comforting than threatening, even though Draco knows Jasper's a dangerous man himself. Jasper looks towards the Quodpot match. 

The others are giving them their space, Draco realises. It's not that they're not aware he's down here with Jasper; they're just pretending they don't care. Except for Bobby, who's watching them, his eyes narrowed as he tosses the quod between his hands. He's jealous, Draco thinks, and he wishes Bobby weren't. Draco's been here long enough to know Jasper's a father figure to Bobby. One of the few men Bobby trusts. Draco looks over at him. Tries to catch his gaze, to let him know he's nothing to worry about. Draco's not a threat. 

Bobby just looks away. His frown relaxes though, and he leans towards Jonks, says something that makes Jonks chuckle, a deep, rumbling laugh that echoes across the court.

A curious rush of affection goes through Draco. He's starting to like these men. To consider them friends, in a strange way. He looks back over at Jasper. "I trust you," he says, surprising himself. "Maybe I shouldn't, but I think I do."

Jasper picks up the scrap of cigarette Yaxley'd stomped out. He rolls it between his fingertips before slipping it into the pocket of his jumpsuit. Draco regrets not absconding with it himself. It might have earned him a favour from someone down the line. "You probably shouldn't."

"Without a doubt," Draco says, and he laughs. "But I don't think you're the man you claim to be in here."

"Probably not." Jasper falls silent for a long moment, and then he says, his voice quiet, "You know, I never meant to kill that man." He looks off into the distance, towards the Quodpot, but Draco's certain that's not what he's seeing. Grief's etched into the lines and planes of his face. "It was a goddamn accident. Christopher never deserved it." 

"I know," Draco says. He hesitates, then he adds, "You tried to make a Resurrection Stone."

Jasper's gaze slides his way. "Yeah. How did--"

Draco watches Jasper, a bit dispassionately. He's not certain how much he should reveal. Or how much Jasper already knows and is pretending he doesn't. "I told you I knew about Christopher Zabini." At Jasper's nod, Draco shrugs. "His son's my best friend." He stops, looks back across the prison yard. Jonks has the quod beneath his arm again. He's saying something to Nikolai, then to the other men gathered around them. But Bobby's off to the side, his gaze fixed on Draco and Jasper, his face pensive. Draco waves at him. Bobby gives him a faint smile, then turns away. Draco chews on his cheek, glances back at Jasper. "Anyway. Unless something's completely gone tit's up, he's shagging your son. Blaise, that is. Not Christopher, obviously."

"Well, goddamn." Jasper looks gobsmacked. "Universe works in fucking weird ways, I guess. Although that's a twist of fate I wouldn't have thought of." He shakes his head, runs his hand through his silver-blond hair. Frowns. "Jakey knows about all this?"

"Enough." Draco wonders how much Blaise has told Durant know. Whether it's pulled them closer together or pushed them apart. It has to be hard for Blaise, Draco thinks. Knowing your boyfriend's dad murdered the father you never knew. But Draco supposes he and Harry have made it through circumstances just as difficult. Perhaps even worse. Draco'd been responsible for more than one death, even if not directly. But still. Harry'd lost people he'd loved because of Draco's cowardice. His idiocy. 

But Harry still, somehow, loves Draco. And for that fact, Draco will forever be grateful. 

Jasper's silent, and then he laughs, a quick, soft, uncertain chuckle. "Remember when I asked you first time we met if you believed in fate, Blondie?"

"Yes." Draco stares out over the yard, his thoughts still on Harry. 

Jasper crosses his legs, wincing as his knees crack. He glances over at Draco. "I'm starting to wonder if you're meant to help right that wrong for me. Christopher, I mean." He folds the cotton of his trousers between his finger and thumb, pulling it tight across his bent knee as he looks away again. "Sins of the goddamn fathers and all that bullshit." His face crumples. "Élodie always told me that night was gonna come back and bite me in the ass one day. That Death wasn't going to overlook our fuckup. Mine or Dee's." He chews on his bottom lip. "I ain't a churchgoer like Él was, but I can sure as fuck tell you that things happen for a reason. Been in here long enough to believe the whole goddamn world's intertwined, and shit we think is a coincidence might not be in the long run." Jasper exhales, looks back at Draco. "You're here for a reason. So am I. It ain't just about what we did or didn't do. Yeah?"

"Perhaps," Draco says. He doesn't disagree. Not entirely. He suspects that somewhere in the back of all this, Death's pulling the strings. Playing them all like bloody panto puppets. Draco doesn't like any of it. Not now that Yaxley's arrived on stage. 

"Then you can't tell me that shitface Aldric Yaxley ain't involved in all this." Jasper looks grim. "Somehow."

Draco doesn't know what to say. How much to trust Jasper with what he knows. He studies the man, taking in the furrow of Jasper's brow, the downturn of his mouth. Jasper meets his gaze evenly. 

"Is my boy in trouble?" Jasper asks.

All Draco can do is nod. "Both of them." 

Jasper looks away. Swears. His fists clench; he presses his knuckles into the flesh of his thighs. "It's all tied together then," he says heavily. It's not a question. Draco recognises that. 

"The Robichaus." Draco's voice is quiet. "The Yaxleys. Death. My family." He licks his lips. "I don't know how or why. But that cup--"

"Goddamn," Jasper says, and his voice breaks. He bends over, and for a moment Draco thinks he's about to sick up. Instead he presses his knuckles to his mouth and breathes out. "That fucking piece of shit--" He inhales unsteadily. "It's hidden away. Élodie and I made sure of that--"

"No, it's not."

Jasper's head jerks up. "The fuck you say?"

"My Uncle Rodolphus has the cup." Draco can't look over at Jasper. "He took it from your wife's grave. Or we took it, really." Draco presses his lips together, draws in a slow breath. "He took it from us in the end. My team tried to stop him, and we buggered up. Badly." He presses his fingers to his face. He can feel the sharp ridge of his cheekbones beneath his skin. "I suppose that's why I'm here. Why they won't let me go. Everyone wants that bloody damned cup."

"You're telling me it's gone?" Jasper's voice is rough rasp. He reaches out, grasps Draco's shoulder, his ragged fingernails digging into the cotton of Draco's t-shirt. "It's not with Él any more?"

Draco shakes his head. "Quahog was looking for it," he says. "Which means Yaxley wants it in the end--"

"Jesus Christ." When Draco glances over, Jasper's face is grey. Jasper lurches forward a bit, towards Draco, his free hand going to his chest. "You fucking idiot," he manages to get out, and then his body jerks, his eyes widen in surprise. He falls against Draco with an awful, terrible gasp rattling in his throat. 

"Fuck," Draco says. "Jasper--" He grabs Jasper's shoulders, pushes him onto his back. "Jasper! God, you fucker--" Draco bends over Jasper, his panic bubbling over. Durant will kill him if Jasper's gone. Draco knows that. Durant and his brother Eddie both. He holds his hand over Jasper's nostrils. A faint but steady breath brushes over his skin, but Draco doesn't like Jasper's pallor. He looks up. "You wankers," he shouts towards the guards. "Medical emergency!"

The guards look his way, and for a moment, Draco thinks they're going to ignore him, but then a woman breaks away from the group, running towards Draco and Jasper. From behind him, Draco hears an anguished cry. 

It's Bobby. 

But Draco doesn't have a moment to think about what that means, what must be going through Bobby's head. The guard's hands are on Draco's shoulders, shoving Draco away. "Move," she says, not caring that Draco's falling, scrabbling to keep himself upright. She squats beside Jasper. "Durant. Come on, you asshole. Look at me."

Jasper's eyes flutter open for a moment. "Anneliese," he murmurs. "Always knew you liked me."

"Shut up," Anneliese says, but Draco hears the catch in her voice. She looks over towards the other guards. "Royce, get the infirmary ready. Mark, come help me get this fucker up."

Draco finds himself being pushed back, out of the way. A brown hand settles on his shoulder, draws him out of the fray of guards. Draco looks up. Jonks is beside him, his gaze fixed on Jasper. "He'll be all right," Jonks says, and Draco thinks Jonks has to believe that. Draco can't blame him. He needs to believe it as well. 

So he nods, and then Bobby's on his other side, the rest of the prisoners behind them. Bobby's face is pale, his eyes wide and dark. He's shaking, and when Draco tries to put a hand on his back, Bobby jerks away, a shuddering breath expelled from his lungs. 

"Leave him be," Jonks murmurs, but Draco doesn't want to. He knows that look on Bobby's face. He's felt that fear himself, that overwhelming tsunami of grief, of fury, of disbelief. Of loss. 

Draco shifts closer to Bobby. Reaches out, lets his fingers brush against Bobby's arm. Bobby flinches, turns a blank gaze on Draco. "He's breathing, Bobby," Draco says, but he's not certain Bobby hears him, not certain Bobby understands. 

No one else says a word as Anneliese and Mark lift Jasper, using their wands to create a shimmering sling between them. 

Anneliese bends down over Jasper. "Goddamn drama queen," she says, gently. "Always have to be making a scene, don't you?"

Jasper's sweating; he looks awful. His breath is shallow. Unsteady. His eyes open again; he reaches up and brushes his knuckles against Anneliese's shoulder before his gaze slides past her, finds Draco. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to. Draco can see the fear and grief written across his face. 

"Jas--" Bobby's voice is rough, tight. 

But Jasper doesn't look at him. He keeps his eyes fixed on Draco, until they slide closed, and Anneliese is shouting at Mark to hurry, to get Jasper up to the infirmary. 

And then they're gone, with Jasper swaying between them, through the door into the depths of the prison. 

The yard's silent; the quod rolls past Draco's trainers. Bobby stops it with his foot, and then with a broken, harrowing roar of fury, he kicks the leather ball. It slams against the side of the prison, barely missing one of the remaining guards. 

No one moves. 

"Bobby," Jonks says, and he reaches past Draco, but Bobby pulls away. 

"You did this," Bobby shouts, turning on Draco. His eyes are bright, half-mad with grief. "You said something--" His voice breaks, and Draco tries to grab Bobby's arm, tries to calm him. 

"It's not--"

But Bobby lunges Draco's way. 

Almost too late, Draco sees the glint of metal in Bobby's hand, the shiv that Draco hadn't realised Bobby was carrying. 

It slices through Draco's shirt, just as Draco turns away, and for a moment Draco thinks it's fine, that Bobby missed him. 

Until his side stings. 

"Blondie," Jonks says, and the now-familiar nickname sounds so strangely slow and drawn out. 

Draco looks at him, blinks. It feels as if it takes forever. 

The guards are running towards them, and Draco knows they're yelling, saying something he can't quite make out. He draws in a breath. It hurts. He opens his mouth. 

Bobby pivots again, his face twisted in anger and grief, the shiv shining in the sunlight. It arcs again, towards Draco, all silver and sharp, and Draco looks down, hearing the shouts around him. They run together in his ears, nothing but a cacophony of noise, that seems as if Draco's heard it sometime before. Arms move past him, reaching for Bobby, and Draco stares at the two slashes across his torso, at the ripped edges of his white cotton t-shirt, at the crimson blood spreading across the thin fabric, pouring over the fingers he's pressed to the wounds. 

He looks up at Jonks, who's staring at him in shock and horror.

Someone's holding Bobby down, and Draco can hear him screaming. It grows fainter, overcome by the ringing in Draco's ears. 

"Blondie," Jonks says again, but Draco can't really hear it this time; he just sees the way Jonks' mouth is moving. Above them sunlight breaks through the clouds, pouring down over Draco, warm and bright, and he lifts his face to it, feeling its touch against his skin as his legs give out beneath him. 

Draco's body crashes to the yard, and he stares up at the streaks of bright blue sky through the gaps in the heavy grey clouds. 

"Harry," Draco says, and he can almost feel Harry with him, can almost see Harry's face in the brightness filling his vision. And then the features change, twist, Harry's green eyes growing colder, bluer, and just as the brightness bursts around Draco, exploding in a cacophony of colours, he hears a whisper. A faint Welsh lilt, he thinks.

"Not yet, lad."

There's nothingness around him.

Deep. Vast. Dark. Frightening.

Is this what his father saw? What he felt in that last breath, that last slow blink? 

"Harry," Draco says again, with all the anger he can muster. 

There's a breath. A glimpse of bright blue eyes. The whisper comes again, soft and hushed. Cotton wool against the ridges of his fear. His fury. Gentle. Careful. As if it's lifting him up, carrying him someplace safe.

"Not yet, lad." _Not yet._

And then everything's gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, yes, I know that's a cliffhanger. I'M SORRY I REALLY AM. *sobs* But I promise things will work out before the end of this book. Those of you who've been reading along know I've always promised happy Drarry in the end, so keep that in mind before you hyperventilate!!!!! :) I'm aiming for the next chapter to post on or around Sunday, October 28.
> 
> As always, you can subscribe for Tales from the Special Branch updates [here on AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/series/661862) or follow me [on tumblr at femmequixotic!](http://femmequixotic.tumblr.com). I'm taking Special Branch asks there.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Draco wakes up, Harry wakes up, and Death wants what's his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMFG, I had not intended to be gone from this story for THREE MONTHS. And on that cliffhanger, too! Many apologies--life and some other responsibilities got in the way, including a current bout of bronchitis that's delayed this chapter a bit longer than I'd anticipated. Thank you to everyone for reading -- I'm sorry for the wait! As for now, I plan to resume an every three week posting schedule.

The sharp smell of antiseptic potions barely covers the stench of bodily fluids. Piss. Blood. Sick. 

Draco's stomach lurches as his eyes flutter open. There's a bright light, blurred shapes, and then Draco's heaving, the bile in his belly burning up his oesophagus. It hurts. Merlin, but it hurts so badly. Hands are on him, rolling him to the side as his sick spatters against the thin blanket he's clutching. The slick coolness of a metal surface presses against his cheek as he heaves again. This time the sick goes into the bedpan. Draco closes his eyes again. Pain thrums through his body, hot and quick, all of his nerves set on fire. His chest feels hollowed out, his belly ripped open. He tries to move. Tries to say something. Draco can't get out more than a breath. 

He feels someone nearby. His eyes open ever so slightly. He catches a glimpse of pale green cotton, of light brown skin. Something moves in the shadows beyond, and he thinks he sees white hair. Bright blue eyes. _No,_ Draco tries to say, but it only comes out as a rough croak. 

A skeletal hand reaches out for him, and Draco pushes at the bedpan beside his face, his heart pounding. _No. No. I'm not ready for you--_

"No!" The cry is harsh and almost unintelliglble, and the green cotton's there again, taking the bedpan away. Sick's spattered across his pillow now. Draco can smell the stench of the bile. He turns his head away, but he knows Rosier is still there in the shadows. Still watching him. 

A shadow falls across the bed. There's a soft beep of a monitoring machine, the kind Draco remembers from watching Blaise in hospital. 

Watching Harry, lying so silent and grey against the white sheets of Bonavista Hospital in New York.

Draco's heart aches. His side hurts. Terribly. He tries to sit up. He can't. He tries again, a soft gurgle coming from the back of his throat as the pain rips through his body, taking his breath away. He sinks back against the pillows, gasping. The light above him is too bright; he squints against the circular flares burning into his vision.

Once again, hands reach across Draco, wide and strong, oval, unpolished nails clipped short. The beeping changes. Slows a little. He can feel something dripping into his arm. It's hot at first, like a flush across his skin, and for a moment he thinks he might have to piss himself before that fades. A lethargy seeps through Draco, and he lies silently, his body wracked in pain with each slight movement. He just doesn't care as much.

"It's all right," a woman's voice says from above him. It's calm, steady. Warm fingers smooth Draco's hair back from his forehead. Draco's breathing hard; he can taste the acid bitterness of sick in the back of his throat. It almost makes his stomach wrench again. "Just breathe."

As if Draco can. He tries. It hurts too badly. His mind starts to fuzz around the edges; his vision starts to blur. A face looms over him, but he can't make out the features. Dark curls are shadowed against the bright light, and Draco wants to pull away from the hands that are holding him down gently, carefully. 

Draco hears the woman say something above him, and he's not certain if it's to him or someone else. Her voice feels far away. Almost melodic. 

The world tilts around him, swirls. Shadows curl towards him, leeching the light away as they twist and coil. The woman says something, more sharply, and Draco's certain she's not talking to him. He feels a cold touch brush across his skin, feels bony fingers curl around his. 

"Come with me," a voice says, rich and warm and Draco recognises the faint Welsh lilt. He looks up into bright blue eyes. "I'll take you to him. It's what you want, yes?"

A smile, one that's icy and sharp, all bones and teeth beneath pale skin. 

Draco's heart slows. He can feel each agonising beat in his chest, like a knife cutting through sinew and muscle, and the woman shouts something. Draco can just see her past the smiling grimace, the silver-white hair. The light gleams brighter, gleaming against her brown skin. 

"Trust me," the voice says, and the bony fingers tighten around Draco's hand, pulling at him, lifting him weightlessly off the bed and into the swirling darkness. The smile comes again, and there's a heartlessness to it that makes Draco want to pull away, to fall backwards into the body that's lying silent on the bed, the woman bent over him. "I'll show you your Harry."

And that's all it takes. Draco hasn't a choice now, has he? He looks into the cold eyes, the cruel smile. Behind him the beeping of the monitors rises, swells. Another set of hands joins the woman's, big and meaty, golden hairs faint against wide knuckles. Draco can feel the pressure against his chest, steady and even as the hands press down against him. 

_He's going,_ he hears the woman say, and there's a faint panic to her voice that Draco finds odd. He wonders why she cares so much. He's nothing. Just a John Doe. Nothing more.

Draco's hand turns beneath the bony fingers. He grips them tightly. All he wants is to see Harry. Something inside him pulls back, tells him he's making a foolish choice. It doesn't seem to matter. Nothing does really. 

Just Harry.

"Please," Draco says, his voice little more than a whispery rasp, and then he lets the shadows sweep him away.

***

Harry jerks upright. He's shaking, his breath coming in sharp, short gasps.

It's not that anything in particular has woken him. Not a nightmare. Not an odd sound in the usual creaks and groans of Grimmauld settling around him. No. Whatever it was that'd pulled him from sleep had been something different. An uneasy feeling that Harry can't shake, even upon waking, a heavy sense of disquiet that settles around his shoulders, that makes his stomach roil. 

He throws the woolen blanket off him and sits up. Tries to steady himself. Tries to take in a slow breath, but it catches in the back of his throat. The leather of the library sofa shifts loudly beneath his thighs as he leans forward; Harry hadn't bothered to go upstairs when he'd finished off the bottle of firewhisky in the cabinet. He presses his fingers to his eyes. His undone cuffs flap open, pulling his wrinkled sleeves back on his arm to show the curves and swirls of the inked mark on his golden skin; he's still in his trousers and shirt from yesterday, he realises. Harry exhales through his nose, tries to swallow past the awful sour taste in his throat. For a moment he thinks he's vommed, but it's not that. Harry drops his hands; the world doesn't shift into focus around him. It takes a moment for him to realise it's his lack of glasses that's the problem, and he scrabbles for them on the floor beside the sofa. They go skidding across the worn wooden planks, stopping only when they hit the tiled edge of the hearth, and Harry swears. He pushes himself up off the sofa: the library tilts around him, and Harry thinks he's about to lose his balance. He doesn't. But his body aches, feels odd in a way that Harry doesn't quite understand. He grabs his glasses, sets them on the bridge of his nose. Blinks into the deep, disquieting shadows that shroud the library. Outside it's raining; watery rivulets stream down the glass panes of the tall windows across the room, dim the faint, orange glow that always seems to seep through London at night, no matter where one might be. Harry glances at the silver clock on the mantel, the one next to the framed photo of Draco and himself the house had put up weeks ago. It's nearly half-four in the morning. 

Nothing's strange around him. Not in a way that Harry can put his finger on. The house is quiet, in that gloomy way it's been for weeks now, but Harry's started to find himself used to that. It's better than him having to face false cheer when he comes home. Harry likes the grimness of Grimmauld, the slight tinge of dust and grime that's building up with Draco gone. It suits his own mood. He looks around. At the moment his boots are tossed to one side, his socks shoved into them; he'd thrown his jacket and tie across the chair when he'd come in, along with his satchel. The gold of Harry's watch glints from the coffee table, and there's a half-eaten bacon sarnie on a plate. Harry'd given it up in favour of drinking last night. He hadn't been all that hungry in the end. The empty bottle of firewhisky's tipped over beside the sofa, and the last drops have dribbled onto the floor. Kreacher'll be annoyed, but Harry doesn't care. He turns his head. Listens. 

There's a tapping on the window. It startles Harry, makes him jump. 

"Jesus, Potter," he murmurs to himself. "Pull yourself together." It's probably nothing more than the wind ruffling one of the branches of the oak in the back garden. Draco'd been after him to trim the damned thing before… Harry's throat tightens. Well. Just before. He hasn't felt like it since he'd made it back to London five and half weeks ago, although he might have to soon. The leaves will be starting to turn, and then it'll just be bare branches out there, and that'll just be even more unsettling. He wonders if Draco'll be home before the leaves fall. He can't imagine a winter without him. At least they know where he is now. Not that it's seemed to help. Five days on, and Harry can't manage to break Draco out of Oudepoort. 

And the wizarding world thinks of him as their Saviour. His mouth twists to one side. Bloody brilliant Chosen One he is, isn't he?

There's a movement outside. A quick flash of something that's nothing more than the branch in the wind, Harry's certain. And the whispered _Potter_ he hears is just his mind playing tricks on him. That's all. Everyone hears their name sometime. Auditory hallucination, the Muggles call it, and Harry reckons they're not wrong. 

Still, Harry walks over to the window, his bare feet slapping softly against the floor. Looks out on the darkened back garden. The rain's coming down harder, in sheets that blow across the unkempt flower beds, soak the wooden chairs and table that Harry and Draco had dined at for such a brief time this summer. Harry thinks of those warm nights; the glasses of wine drunk beneath the humidity of late twilight, watching as the first stars shimmered in the dusky sky. It'd really only been a few weeks they'd had together, he realises. It feels as if it'd been a lifetime. Everything's changed so quickly since he'd come back to England in May. Harry's whole life has been turned upside down; what he'd thought he'd wanted back then is so very different from what he knows he needs now. A sudden draft ripples the curtains, and Harry shivers, crossing his arms over his chest to warm himself. It doesn't help. 

Harry starts to turn away. A shadow moves across the window. The surprise of it sends Harry stumbling backwards. For fuck's sake, it's nothing, Harry tells himself. Just the tree. Nothing more. 

Until a flash of lightning cleaves the rain-streaked sky, bright enough to illuminate the back garden for the briefest of moments. A man's stood there in the middle of the downpour, looking at Harry. His white hair gleams in the rain, not a lock out of place, despite the wet and the wind; his dark cloak ripples around him. 

Rosier. Again. 

Harry's arm burns, hot and quick, the twists and curliques of black ink setting his skin aflame.

Darkness falls over the garden. Harry's heart is pounding in his chest, a galloping staccato that makes him reach for the drapes, his eyes wide, his hand shaking. He's terrified. More so than he's been for a long time. How couldn't he be, seeing Death standing outside of his window. Harry's fingers twist in the thick brocade. 

Lightning flashes once more. Harry meets Rosier's gaze through the rain-streaked window panes. Rosier doesn't look away. The shadows twist around him; Harry can barely see his tall frame through the rain. He moves closer to the window. 

_Potter_ , he hears again. But it doesn't sound like Rosier. Not entirely. There's a poshness to the cadence of Harry's name, a warmth that Harry remembers. Knows all too well. 

There's another crack of thunder, another bright flare that lights up the back garden. This time Harry sees a second figure standing beside Rosier. Thinner. Taller. Loose silver-gilt hair falling around a sharply pointed jaw. A pale, bare torso in the shadows that sways towards Rosier, eyes closed. 

Draco. 

Harry doesn't stop. Doesn't think. He runs for the French door that leads into the garden, pushing it open without thought for the storm raging around them. All he cares is that Draco's there, pale and wan and looking as if he might crumple any moment. 

A wild wind whips through the back garden, sending rain stinging against Harry's cheeks. A twig breaks off from the oak tree, flies past Harry, just missing his face. Harry's feet slip on the muddy grass; his shirt's plastered to his chest, his glasses so badly speckled with rain that Harry can barely see through them. The rain's bitterly cold, but Harry's reaching for Draco, his hand trying to catch Draco's, trying to pull him closer. 

Harry's fingers close on thin air. 

Draco's eyes flutter open. He looks at Harry, almost as if he can see him, his eyes dull, nearly blank. His skin is a pallid grey, and there's something across his side, two wide lines crusted over with something thick and dark, and he reaches out for Harry, but as close as he is, his hand can't quite reach Harry's. Draco's mouth opens, shapes a word that he doesn't utter. 

_Harry._

And then he's gone, leaving Harry alone in the stormy darkness with Rosier watching him, a grim quirk to his thin lips.

"You're a bastard," Harry shouts at him, the words ripped from his lips by the wind. 

"I never claimed to be kind." Rosier's blue eyes burn into the depths of Harry's soul. His voice rises as the wind picks up. His cloak swirls around him, bone dry in the centre of the storm. 

Harry clenches his fists, his fingernails digging into his palm. "He's hurt." His arm throbs hotly this close to Death. It frightens Harry more than he can admit. Even to himself.

"Yes." Rosier shrugs. "Humans are delicate, aren't they?"

It's all Harry can do not to throw himself at Death, not to pound his fists into Rosier's wide chest. But it wouldn't do any good. Harry knows that. Not a punch would land; his hands would sweep through the nothingness of Death. "What did you do?" Harry's voice is tight, high. He doesn't care. There's no sense in hiding how he feels. Rosier already knows. 

Rosier's smile is thin, tight. "Nothing. I merely took advantage of a situation to make a point." 

"I won't help you if you've taken him," Harry says fiercely. He lifts his chin, his mouth pressed thin. His heart's beating wildly against his chest as he stares down Death himself.

"Obviously." Rosier studies Harry for a long moment, his face guarded, then he shakes his head. "Never fear. Mr Malfoy's not mine yet." His brows draw together. "However, I'm not above claiming him if you don't do what you promised." 

Fury wells up inside of Harry, deep and raw and overwhelming. "I don't know how--"

"Are you not the Master of Death?" Rosier's gaze is mocking, angry. He glances down at Harry's arm, at the coils that are twisting across Harry's skin, almost as if they're trying to pull away from Harry's flesh, trying to reach Rosier. "My own chosen protector? Listen to the magic, Inspector Potter. It'll tell you exactly what I require." He looks back up at Harry, his mouth a thin, bitter curve. "It already is, I daresay." 

Harry's arm hurts like fuck. It's all he can do not to grip it, to try to push back the pain by digging his fingers into the muscle, the dark-fuzzed skin. He thinks of the Cloak, of the way it calls out to him. Of the things he sees when its silvery folds close around him, covering him like a shroud. He swallows, looks away, across the back garden. Shadows shift in the corners, writhing in ways that make Harry's soaked skin crawl. He wraps his arms around himself, as if he can keep them at bay with such a futile gesture. His wet shirt stretches across his shoulders; his hair's plastered to his forehead.

Rosier raises one hand; the finger he points at Harry is pale and bony and dry against the wild night around them. "Find what's mine, Potter, or I'll take what's yours. Of that I damned well promise you." His smile widens, his eyes darken. For the briefest of moments Harry sees not his ragged face but a bone-white skull hanging in the darkness until it disappears. 

_Tick-tock,_ Rosier's voice whispers in Harry's ear. Wind rushes past Harry, cold and wet, and thunder cracks above him. His heart pounds so hard that he's half-certain it's going to give out, that Rosier will take Harry with him. _Time's running out, I'm afraid._

In the emptiness of the garden, Harry stumbles forward, his knees hitting the slick mud, the spreading puddles, his body shaking, shuddering, his arm burning hot and deep, almost to the bone itself, and, with a throat raw and tight, Harry screams his fear and anguish into the rain.

***

Draco's body jerks. A sound comes from deep within his throat, hoarse and half-formed, almost a shout, but choked off, swallowed. He can feel the heaviness of his arms, the tight constriction around his torso. The wave of nausea that rises up along with his consciousness.

A hand settles on his shoulder. "It's all right." The woman's voice again. It's soft. Gentle. 

The light's bright again when Draco's eyes flutter open. He blinks against the blurry burn. A sharp cough sends spittle across his lips, and then the world around him shifts into focus. 

He remembers Death. The coldness, the emptiness around him. And he thinks he remembers Harry, looking at him across a wide gulf, a cold rain separating them. He can almost hear Harry's shout, see Harry running towards him.

It'd been a dream. A concoction of his fevered mind and whatever potions they've placed him on here. 

"Careful," the woman says when Draco tries to push himself up off the thin mattress.Pain ripples through him, and he falls back against the flat pillows. His hand's caught on the railing of the bed anyway. Incarcerous, Draco realises. Because of course they wouldn't want him getting loose in a place like this. Draco can feel the soft pulse of magic thrumming through him. Muted, but still there, a soft, welcome thrill against Draco's skin. They haven't suppressed magic in here, not entirely, but he supposes they couldn't have. Healing spells and potions would have to work. Still, if they've kept them at a low level, that would explain why Draco's still hurting. Healing would take longer that way.

A wry face looks down at him, long and narrow and pale brown, haloed by dark curls. "You're a stubborn one, aren't you?"

Draco swallows, coughs again. "Where am I?" His voice sounds rough, thick. His mind presses lightly against the woman's. It's not much, but it's enough for him to hear her worry about him. He almost hadn't made it; she'd been certain he was going to die at one point. Draco hits a memory of monitoring alarms, of her shouting at another man that they were going to lose him. Of hands pressing against his chest in a steady, even rhythm.

He backs away from those thoughts quickly, even as his hand settles against the sheet covering his chest. It hurts with each breath he takes. 

"You're in the prison infirmary." The woman pours a potion into a small plastic cup. She wears the pale green scrubs of a Healer, the ones Draco recalls seeing on the New York Healers back when Harry'd been put in hospital. He hadn't thought about the prison needing to have Healers around, even as he'd known there was an infirmary. Stupid of him, he supposes, but he'd thought it'd be staffed with mediwitches and mediwizards. Or someone like Madam Pomfrey, back in school. The Healer looks back over at him. "You remember getting shivved, yeah?" There's a melodic lilt to her voice that Draco likes. She hands him the cup; when she leans over the edge of the bed, Draco catches a glimpse of her name tag. _M. Esperanza._ "Drink up, doll."

"What's it do?" Draco eyes the thick purple liquid suspiciously. Tiny bubbles pop on the surface; the potion feels warm through the thin plastic of the cup. 

Esperanza snorts. "Nothing you probably want it to do." She pats Draco's shoulder as she turns away. "It's just an antibiotic potion. Fuck only knows where that shiv Bobby stuck you with's been."

Draco lifts the cup to his lips, swallows the potion down with a faint grimace. It's bitter, but not terribly so. He hands the cup back to Esperanza as she walks back over, a stainless steel tray floating beside her, gauze and a couple of ceramic jars stacked on top of it. "What are they doing with him?" He clears his throat. "Bobby." Draco doesn't want Bobby in trouble. He knows why Bobby went after him. Or he thinks he does, at least.

Esperanza doesn't answer. With gloved hands, she pulls the sheet down that's covering Draco's bare chest, revealing the six-inch square of gauze taped over the left side of his belly. The tape pulls Draco's skin as she takes it off. The inside of the gauze is stained dark with blood and other fluids Draco'd rather not consider. Esperanza frowns down at the scabbed-over wound; it's a good three inches long, the edges smooth until the top where they're a bit jagged. Bobby must have jerked the shiv up, Draco realises. Twisted it a bit. 

"It could have been worse," Esperanza says after a moment. 

Draco looks up at her, the possibilities of what's just happened to him beginning to sink in. "I could have died."

"You almost did." Esperanza removes the gauze, wads it up as she drops it on the tray. She picks up one of the ceramic jars and opens the lid. A sharply antiseptic aroma rises up from the salve inside. Esperanza scoops some out, smears it across Draco's skin. The salve's cold, and it stings the edges of Draco's wound. "I had a minute or two when I was about to call you, but you came back." Her gaze flicks up towards Draco's face, her almost black eyes sharp and bright. "Silent as a fucking mouse you'd been up until then, but when your heart started again, you practically sat up, shouting for a Harry." She shakes her head. "Weirdest damn thing I've seen, and I used to work the full moon shifts at Bonavista." Esperanza wipes her fingers on a cloth she grabs from the tray. "Sorry about your chest. If you're doing compressions right, you break a few ribs. I had you on a Skele-gro drip for an hour after you came back to us."

"Oh." Draco fights back the urge to dry heave. He lets his shoulders relax against the pillows, tries to breathe in through his nostrils. It doesn't really help that much. His chest still hurts, and now that Esperanza's mentioned it, he can feel the fizziness of bones knitting together inside of him. He watches Esperanza pick up another of the jars on the tray, dipping her fingers into it. The salve she smears across the wound is warmer this time, and there's some sort of pain compound in it because the ache deep in his belly starts to fade. He drags his tongue across his bottom lip. It tastes odd. A bit sour. Draco isn't certain whether it's from the potion or from the sick. He doesn't much care. 

"Didn't feel like yesterday was a day I wanted to let one of you assholes go, though." Esperanza looks up at him again. "Managed to keep both you and Durant alive for another sunrise." She glances at the watch on her wrist. "Well. If you can make it two more hours, at least."

Relief floods Draco. "Jasper's all right?"

"Wouldn't say that." Esperanza lays a few sheets of gauze over the salve on Draco's wound. She tapes the edges down, then pulls off her gloves and tosses them on the tray. A flick of her hand sends it puttering past the stark white curtain that's hanging around Draco's bed. Esperanza sighs. "Honestly, I don't know why the warden doesn't take the dampening spells off this whole suite. It's like swimming through molasses some days, trying to heal you assholes." She looks back at Draco. "Durant's alive for now. That's all I can promise, but he's a stubborn old bastard himself, so I expect he'll pull through."

"Can I see him?" Draco doesn't know why he asks. Except he feels responsible for Jasper in his own way. 

Esperanza hesitates. Her gaze flicks towards the half-open curtain; she chews on her lip. "I would like to have you up and walking," she says, looking back at Draco, her face uncertain. "Best practice suggests that the sooner you're moving, the better you'll heal." She reaches for a tatty grey dressing gown hanging on a hook beside the bed; Draco hadn't even noticed it there. "I suppose it wouldn't do any harm to walk you over and back."

Draco watches as she lowers the bed rail. The thin Incarcerous binding his wrist to it stretches until Esperanza pulls out her wand and detaches it, settling the free end around her thin wrist. 

"No funny business," she says with a frown his way, and Draco just gives her a faint smile.

"Reckon I wouldn't be up for dashing out of here." He winces as he sits up, sways a little. 

Esperanza steadies him. "Yeah, well, you'd be surprised at how stupid some of your comrades are." She helps Draco swing his legs off the side of the bed. They'd put him in different trousers; these are softer grey trackies, and the elasticised waistband is pulled down to his hip bones, well beneath the stretch of clean gauze. 

The linoleum floor's cold when Draco's bare feet hit it, and Draco's half-certain his knees are going to give way. 

"Careful." Esperanza draws the thin dressing gown over Draco's shoulders, helps him get his arms in. Even the small stretch of leaning back into the gaping sleeve makes Draco flinch. Everything hurts; it's just a question of how badly. Esperanza draws the robe up over Draco's bare shoulders, tugs it gently across his chest before she knots the belt. Her hands are steady and sure; the golden Incarcerous glints against her olive skin like a bracelet of light. "You'll be hurting for a few days." The look she gives him is apologetic. "The salve I can use here is only half as effective as it would be without the dampening effect, and when you go back into general population, I can only give you Muggle painkillers. They'll burn off more quickly because of the way your latent magic reacts to them, but you still have to conform to Muggle dosages." She helps him stand. "And you'll have to come to me to get them. Can't let drugs out into the prison, after all." 

"Sounds brill," Draco says, and when he takes his first step, his breath catches in agony. He clenches his jaw, tries not to shake. Not even the full Cruciatus Blaise had put him under back in May had hurt as badly as this does. How the fuck do Muggles manage without Healing charms? He's not used to this; every time he'd been hurt during the course of his Auror work, he'd been in and out of St Mungo's the same day, with only orders to take it easy for a bit. Nothing had ever felt as awful as this.

Esperanza slides her arm beneath his. "Breathe out," she says, her voice gentle. "The pain'll settle a bit as you move."

Draco nods. Hopes she's right. Another step, then another, and he tries to exhale. His breath is uneven; his wound throbs; he feels as weak as a bloody kitten taken from its mother's milk too early. "Hurts," he manages to say. His head swims. He sees two of Esperanza until he blinks and she slides back into one image. 

"Well, it's going to." Esperanza pushes back the curtain. The room's long and narrow; there are at least three other curtained beds that Draco can count. "Just move slowly." 

It feels as if it takes them an eternity to make it down the side of the room, past the soft whirrs and beeps of monitoring equipment hidden behind thick white curtains. Draco can hear the murmur of voices, the occasional louder cursing of a patient. He wonders how many Healers are in the infirmary at any one time. There'd only been two at Azkaban, and they'd traded off shifts. If any of the prisoners had life-threatening issues, they'd been brought to the guarded ward at St Mungo's where Blaise had been kept. America's bigger though, and Oudepoort's only one of the three wizarding prisons scattered across the country, albeit the largest. Draco supposes it makes sense to have a fully staffed infirmary here instead of having to transport prisoners back and forth to New York.

Also, they're not on a fucking rock in the middle of the bloody North Sea with only Dementors for company, so it's probably easier to convince Healers to come out on a daily basis.

Draco's feet slide across the smooth floor; he barely lifts them as he shuffles forward, breathing through the pain. Esperanza's right, though. It does begin to ebb a little by the time they reach the doorway to the next ward. He can feel her relax as he does; he catches a whiff of her relief when she looks over at him and smiles.

"You're doing great," Esperanza says.

In and out, Draco breathes. He barely notices anything they pass. There's a Healer standing at some sort of ward station, scowling as he flips through a chart. The line of curtained beds becomes a blur. Some are empty, their curtains pulled back. Others are shadowed, the lights dim around the folds of fabric. Draco's toe catches on an uneven tile; he stumbles a bit before Esperanza catches him, pulls him back against her. 

"All right?" she asks, and her face is concerned. Draco just nods. Esperanza eyes him for a moment, and he senses her unease. "I ought to take you back--"

"Please." Draco looks over at her. "I need to see Jasper." The pull's strong. He doesn't know why. He needs to see Jasper with his own eyes, needs to be able to tell Bobby Jasper's fine. If Bobby's even still in general. The likelihood the guards would have thrown him in solitary, at least for a while, is high. Draco might not be a popular prisoner amongst the criminal or the Auror factions of the prison, but he can't imagine there wouldn't be some sort of punishment for Bobby going after him like that. Not for Draco's sake, but rather to keep the others in line. 

Esperanza doesn't look happy. "If you wear yourself out--"

"I won't." Draco tries to straighten his shoulders. "I'm fine."

"You're crazy, you know?" Esperanza shakes her head. "I'd say it's on you, but it's on me too, buddy. The warden told me not to let you die, and he's usually pro prisoners offing each other. Makes his life easier, he says."

That's terribly grim, Draco thinks, but he knows better than to say that aloud. He meets Esperanza's gaze evenly. "I need to see him."

Esperanza sighs. "Fine." She starts walking again, slowly enough that Draco can keep up by shuffling alongside her. They turn another corner, walk down a dimmed corridor. Esperanza stops in front of a curtained bed. She pulls the heavy blue and grey fabric back, just enough for her to look in. "You awake, Durant?"

There's a quiet sound, then a cough. "Who cares?" Jasper sounds exhausted, weary. 

"A visitor of yours." Esperanza pulls the curtain back a bit more, and Draco catches sight of Jasper Durant propped up on two thin pillows, his bed raised just enough. He looks like shit, Draco thinks. His skin's greyish around the edges, and the dark circles beneath his eyes look as if he'd gone a few rounds with one of the guards' batons. 

Jasper looks at Draco, then breathes out. "Blondie." He frowns. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Bobby went after me when you went down," Draco says, as calmly as he can. "Sliced up my side. Said it was my fault your heart gave out." Not that Bobby was really wrong about that, Draco thinks.

"Goddamn idiot." Jasper leans his head back against the pillows. "He always was a stupid son of a bitch." He looks over at Esperanza. "Where'd they put him?"

Esperanza leads Draco over to the chair beside Jasper's bed, helps him sit down, before she says, "Solitary from what I heard." Her mouth thins. "Which means he'll be in here for an eval afterwards with one of the Mind Healers." She transfers Draco's Incarcerous from her wrist to the arm of the chair, using her wand to loop it securely around the uncomfortable bit of plastic. "I'll give you boys a few minutes alone while I mix up Durant's potion. No running off, Malfoy."

Draco pulls at the Incarcerous, lifting his arm a few inches from the chair. Pain twists through him, and he flinches. "I rather think I can safely say that won't happen."

"Yeah, well, like I said, some of you guys are stupid as hell." Esperanza looks over at Jasper. "How you feeling?"

"Like shit caked on a wampus's ass," Jasper says. He rubs his palm over the grey cotton hospital gown he's wearing, his fingers pressing into his chest. "Wouldn't care to have another one of those attacks."

Esperanza crosses over to the other side of the bed, her wand flicking over Jasper, recording his vitals. She frowns down at him. "Not so certain your heart could take another, to be honest." Her gaze flicks towards Draco. "Keep him calm, all right?"

Draco nods, and the curtain swings closed behind her. He picks up the end of his dressing gown tie, folding it between his fingers, unable to look over at Jasper. "You scared us," he says after a moment.

Jasper laughs, but it turns into a cough, and when Draco glances up, his face is twisted in a grimace of pain. Jasper catches Draco's look of worry, and he waves Draco's concern away. "I'm fine," he says. "Takes a hell of a lot to stop a Durant."

But Draco thinks that's not really true. He can feel how weak Jasper is, how low his defenses are. And there's a flicker of anger still back behind that exhaustion. Deserved, Draco thinks. 

They sit silently for a moment, and then Jasper sighs. Scratches his stubbled jaw. "Sorry about Bobby," he says after a moment. "Must have been bad if it landed you in here."

"Healer Esperanza says I nearly died." It sounds so matter-of-fact coming out of Draco's mouth. So calm. He wraps his dressing gown tie around one finger, tugging hard. Jasper's just watching him, and Draco clears his throat. Looks away. "Bobby's rather attached to you."

"I'm the closest thing he has to a dad." Jasper's voice is grim. "But he ought to have known better." He pats his chest. "You didn't stop this."

Except Draco knows he did. "You were talking to me when it happened." He looks up at Jasper. "That was enough for Bobby."

Jasper doesn't say anything. He folds the edge of his sheet between his fingers. Silence stretches out between the two of them, almost interminable in its echoing quiet. Draco pokes a bit with his mind, and Jasper frowns at him. "Stop that." He gives Draco an even look. "I got a boy who's tried that on me before, and I don't like it."

"Sorry," Draco says, and he means it. He slumps a little in his chair. "You're angry with me."

"Yeah." Jasper shrugs. "I got a right to be." He rubs his thumb over the edge of his sheet. "Doesn't mean I ain't sorry that Bobby lost his head. He's a good man, you know, but he's got not a damn lick of sense when it comes to me and Jonks. Goddamn fucker tried to go after Paulie when the bastard called Jonks…" Jasper shakes his head, a disgusted expression on his face. "Well, better left unsaid, really." He looks over at Draco. "Bobby's gonna be fucked up when he comes out of solitary." His eyes are sad, bleak almost. He turns his head. "Living in his head's hard enough most days. He likes you, Blondie. When he realises what he's done, he's gonna be torn up."

"I know." Draco doesn't hold it against Bobby. Maybe Draco should, but he can't. Bobby's a great deal more fragile than most people realise, Draco thinks. And far more attached to Jasper than might be healthy--which Draco suspects Jasper realises himself. But Draco doesn't have it in him to defend Bobby. Or judge him. What's done is done, and how it's all going to play out in the end, Draco doesn't fucking know. So he just sits quietly, his hands folded in his lap. He's tired. He wants the hell out of this wretched place. 

Draco closes his eyes. He can still see Harry standing in the rain, like some sort of mad dream. Draco touches his side, feels the remnants of the deep ache. The pain salve is working, slowly, and all of this feels surreal somehow. Like perhaps when he opens his eyes, he'll be back at Grimmauld, wrapped in Harry's arms, Harry kissing his temple, telling him everything's all right. 

But when his eyes flutter open again, Jasper's looking at him, almost as if he knows what Draco's wishing for. 

"I'm sorry," Draco says after a moment. His voice is rough and raw. "I didn't mean for any of this to happen."

Jasper just shakes his head. "The whole lot of you fucked up, didn't you?"

Draco meets his gaze. "I'm supposed to be keeping you calm." This isn't a subject they ought to be discussing here. Not with Jasper in as bad shape as he is.

"I'm calm enough, boy." Jasper doesn't look away from Draco. He still sounds raspy. Tired. But there's a sharpness in his gaze as he studies Draco's face. "Had a bit of a talk with my wife."

At that, Draco blinks. "What--"

"You get close to dying, you see things," Jasper says simply. "That old bastard likes to toy with you. Likes to thin the veil, so to speak. Except this time my girl was waiting." His face softens. "I was a shit husband, but fuck, I loved my Élodie." He eyes Draco. "Probably about as much as you love your boy."

Draco's throat tightens. "Look at how well that turned out for you." He knows it's cruel, but he can't help himself. 

Jasper just gives him a half-smile. "You ain't wrong." He hesitates for a moment, then he sighs. "Look, I don't know if I'm half-crazy from nearly dying or what the hell it is, but I saw my wife. Talked to her." He looks a bit uncomfortable. "I ain't one of those woo-woo sorts, you know? But growing up with necromancy, well. You learn things about the dead and dying." He glances over at Draco. "And maybe my fool brain was messing around with me, but…" He trails off. 

"What?" Draco asks. He bites his lip, thinks of seeing a soaked Harry in his dream. Maybe it wasn't. Maybe it had been Death's hand he'd taken, as mad as that might seem. 

It takes a moment for Jasper to answer, and when he does, he sounds hesitant in a way Draco's never heard him be. Jasper Durant's a proud man, a man who doesn't show any weaknesses. But when he looks over at Draco, Draco can see the vulnerability in the man. The uncertainty. 

"Élodie told me I needed to get off my ass and help you get that goddamn cup back from your shit of an uncle," Jasper says finally. "Fuck if I know how from inside this shithole, but she said I'd find my way." He stops, corrects himself. "That _we'd_ find _our_ way. Whatever that means."

They look at each other, Draco and Jasper, and Draco wants to burst out into laughter. "The two of us," he says wryly. "In our current conditions."

"Yeah." Jasper's mouth quirks up at one corner. "Élodie never really gave a fuck about how things got done, as long as they did." He shrugs. Winces. "So maybe I had a fucking hallucination, and maybe I'm crazy as a fucking loon, but I want to think that I saw my wife." He looks over at Draco. "So somehow, we're going to get the fuck out of here, Blondie. I just got no goddamn clue how yet."

Draco wants to tell him he's mad, wants to tell him that placing their lives at risk for some fantastical apparition that's probably the result of slow-working pain potions is the worst idea in the fucking world. But he can't. Something stops him. Holds his tongue. 

Jasper holds a hand out to Draco. "We'll figure it out, all right?" 

"Right," Draco finds himself saying, and his fingers close around Jasper's. He's not certain if the trembling he feels is from him or Jasper. Or both of them. 

Footsteps echo down the corridor. Draco pulls his hand away from Jasper's just as the curtain opens and Esperanza ducks in, two small plastic cups filled with potions in her hands. 

"You two all right?" Esperanza asks, and she hands the first cup to Jasper. "Drink up, old man."

Jasper scowls at her before eyeing the potion sceptically. "This better not taste like shit again."

"Of course it will." Esperanza stops beside Draco's chair. "That's how you know it's working."

"Bullshit," Jasper says, but he downs the pale blue potion in two gulps, grimacing as he wipes the back of his hand across his mouth. "God, that was awful."

Esperanza hands over the other cup, taking the empty one from Jasper. "This one will be worse." She sounds far too cheerful; Jasper glares at her again. Esperanza taps the watch on her wrist. "Come on, I'm off duty in an hour, and I need to make sure you're stable for Carrington's shift."

"He likes nasty potions too," Jasper says, but he takes the dark green potion without too much hesitation, holding his nose as he downs it. He sputters and swallows. "You're gonna make me throw up, woman."

"You'll live," Esperanza says. "Which is the point of it all, really." She looks down at Draco. "You both need some rest now. The warden's going to want to check in on you in the morning."

Jasper snorts from his bed. "Better watch that fucking bastard, Blondie. He likes the ones who beg."

Esperanza gives Jasper a look.

"What?" Jasper settles back against his pillows, his eyes half-closed. "I ain't lying." His voice starts to slur a bit. 

"Get some sleep, you asshole," Esperanza says, but she sounds terribly fond, Draco thinks. She glances over at Draco. "I've got a dose of that potion waiting for you too."

Draco's not certain he wants to take it. He's half-afraid of what might happen when he goes under again. "I'm not tired," he says. 

Jasper yawns widely. "You will be," he mumbles, and somehow he manages to sound like his younger son. Demanding and uncertain all at once. 

"Come on." Esperanza switches the Incarcerous back to her wrist, reaches down to help Draco stand. He wobbles a bit on his feet. "This old jackass'll be here when you wake up." 

_At least I hope,_ Draco hears her mind whisper. He looks back at Jasper, at the way his eyelids are drooping closed. 

"I'll come back," he says to Jasper, and Jasper just nods. Waves him off. 

Esperanza leads Draco back into the quiet hallway. "Get what you need?" she asks softly, her gaze slipping towards Draco. 

Draco hasn't a clue if he did, but he nods. 

"Good." Esperanza squeezes Draco's arm lightly. "Don't worry too much about him. Jasper's a fighter. I think he'll pull through."

"I hope so," Draco says. He can't imagine what Jasper's sons would say to him otherwise. He looks back at the curtain, still swinging slowly behind them, as they walk down the hall. 

And in the shadows behind him, he almost thinks he sees a flash of white hair, of bright blue eyes. Until a man steps out, dressed in the pale green scrubs of the infirmary staff, his head bent over a clipboard. He goes into a curtained bed at the end of the corridor. 

Far away from Jasper. 

Draco's surprised at the wave of relief that washes through him, drowning out the rush of pain that comes with each step he takes. He looks back over at Esperanza. 

"He'll be fine," Draco says, and he's not certain if he has to say it for his own benefit or hers. But for one bright moment, he believes it. 

Believes that an aging necromancer saw his wife as he stood at Death's door. Believes that Élodie Durant told her husband more than Jasper'd said. Because Draco knows full well that Jasper's hiding something. What, he doesn't know. 

And Draco's fucking well going to find out.

***

"Harry."

There's a buzz in Harry's head. His brain feels mushy. Weak. He makes a noise, rolls his face into the cushion he's been sleeping on.

"Harry." The voice comes again. More insistent this time. Sharper. Harry knows this voice. All too well. It's woken him up a multitude of times throughout his life. Hermione. It takes him a moment to realise that she's not a dream, that he's asleep, and that he needs to respond. 

But Hermione doesn't wait for his brain to catch up. Her hand settles on Harry's shoulder, shaking him. "Come on. You need to wake up. It's already half-ten."

Harry's mouth is sticky with sleep. "What are you doing here?" His voice is raspy, and he blinks, raising himself up on his elbow. Beneath him, the leather of the sofa sticks to his bare thigh. He's only in his rumpled work shirt and pants; somehow he'd managed to fall asleep in them, no matter how damp they'd been. The sleeves of his shirt are creased and wrinkled; Harry almost instinctively pulls the cuff down over the inked mark on his arm before Hermoine catches sight of it. Buttons it. 

The morning light streaming through the tall library windows tells him the truth of the time: he's overslept, and badly. Of course, it's not surprising given that he'd been up drinking the night before and had slept poorly after seeing Rosier, glimpses of Death and Draco flitting through his frantic dreams when he'd finally dozed off.

Hermione's look is fond, if a bit annoyed. "Whom else would you prefer? Croaker?" She swings her leather satchel off her shoulder, dropping it onto the ottoman. 

"Merlin no." Harry rubs his face, squinting up at her. Hermione's mostly a blur without his glasses, but he can tell she's dressed for work in a neatly tailored green tweed suit, her hair loose and curly around her face. "Anyone but that old scarecrow."

"Up, then." Hermione frowns down at him. "Your team's been trying to get you by mobile and Floo for the past hour. Zabini even came to my office to ask where you are; they've been frantic."

"I didn't sleep well." Harry knows it's not a good enough excuse, but it's all he has at the moment. He manages to sit up, swing his feet to the floor. There's a whisper of soft fabric sliding from his calves and pooling around his feet. 

The Invisibility Cloak.

Harry'd almost forgotten. After Rosier'd disappeared, Harry'd gone up to his wardrobe and pulled it out. Taken it downstairs and wrapped himself in it, hoping against hope it'd reveal something to him. 

It hadn't. 

He'd seen nothing. Felt nothing. The Cloak had been maddeningly silent. After a quarter hour, Harry'd thrown it off, and reached for the dregs of the firewhisky bottle. 

Christ, he has a hangover. 

"What's that?" Hermione asks, moving closer. "Harry--"

"It's just my Cloak." Harry picks the shimmering fabric up, tosses it across the arm of the sofa. He folds the knit blanket he'd been sleeping under and sets it aside. It's one of Molly's favourite patterns, bright stripes interspersed with sparse white ones. 

"Why'd you--"

"No reason." Harry doesn't want to tell her about last night. Not if he can help it. She'll think him mad. For fuck's sake, he's half certain himself he's gone off his nut. Harry reaches over to the coffee table, picks up his glasses and slides them on, blinking as the library slides into focus again. His once-wet trousers are crumpled on the floor; he vaguely remembers shucking them off to fall on the sofa in his pants and shirt. Harry catches sight of Kreacher behind Hermione, peering over the library sofa at him, his brow furrowed. He must have been worried, and the thought pains Harry. Kreacher's been through too much already with him this summer; Harry'd like to keep his elf from more, although he seems utterly unable to do that lately. 

"Master Harry Potter is not being sleeping well," Kreacher says to Hermione. He casts a look back over the arm of the sofa, towards Harry, and Harry wonders how much Kreacher knows about last night. 

"Well, Master Harry Potter needs caffeine," Hermione says, and Harry smells the coffee before he spots it in Hermione's hand, a Caffè Nero cup and a small but promising paper sack.

Harry rubs at his jaw. He needs to shave, he realises. He can't remember if he'd done so the day before. "Tell me you're a goddess bearing coffee?"

"Among other things." Hermione hands Harry the paper cup first. "Here. It should be hot still--I've charmed it. You can have your croissant when you've finished at least half. I'd like to have an actual conversation with you." She looks over at Kreacher. "Can you find Harry's hangover potion?"

Kreacher's ears flap as he nods. "Is being in the cabinet." He disappears with a quick pop, and Hermione sits down on the edge of the ottoman, her knees together, her brown legs tucked to the side in a proper slant. She watches Harry for a long moment; it's enough to make him nervous.

"Drink," Hermione says.

Harry takes a long sip of the blissfully hot latte with an extra shot. "Perfect." He closes his eyes, feels the caffeine starting to perk him up. His head still aches and his mouth still feels cottony, but this is a start at least. 

At that, Hermione frowns. "At least one person in Magical Britain is happy this morning."

Harry catches a sharp bitterness in her tone, almost a menacing one. "What's happened?" He continues to drink his coffee, unwilling to let even fucking Death himself keep him off of his morning coffee. Also Hermione's right--Harry's useless to talk these days before at least a shot or two of espresso, usually to offset the lingering effects of the firewhisky from the night before. His drinking isn't as bad as it'd been those first few weeks, but Harry knows full well he's using firewhisky as a crutch to make it through these nights alone, when the silence of the house gets to be too much. He misses the physicality of training in the Auror gym, his morning exercises, his runs through the city. First it was that he was too wrapped up in Draco and all the nighttime workouts they were having in their bed. Now--well, now it's all different, isn't it?

Still, he's got to get back into his morning routine. He stares down at the coffee cupped between his hands before he looks back up at Hermione. Her face is stricken, and Harry sits up, dread settling over him. "What is it?"

Just then Kreacher pops back in, a small phial clutched in his long fingers. He pushes it towards Harry. "Master Harry Potter's potion," he announces, utterly unnecessarily in Harry opinion. 

Harry glances over at Hermione. 

"Just take it," she says. "I need you at your best."

That probably wouldn't be today then, Harry thinks, but he uncaps the phial and downs a swallow. It kicks in almost immediately, siphoning off the last bits of firewhisky still in his system. He shakes his head at the suddenness of it all, then caps the phial back up and hands it over to Kreacher. "Thanks." Harry looks over at Hermione, his head clearing. "Right. So?"

"So it's official," Hermione says. "Marchbanks is our new Minister." She's almost got tears of frustration in her eyes. "They voted her in last night at half one, and there's nothing to be done about it now."

"Fuck." Harry inhales, mechanically taking another milky, bitter sip of his coffee. There's the second shoe, he thinks. It's not as if he hasn't expected this. They all have. But having it actually happen is different than dealing with the threat of possibility. "So she did it."

"Yeah." Hermione's face is pinched. "She took advantage of the power grab like we thought she might. I'd just hoped that there'd be enough pushback against her…" She shakes her head. "Saul told me I was being naive, and I suppose he was right."

Harry hates Saul Croaker so bloody much at the moment. "You were hopeful the whole fucking Wizengamot hadn't lost their collective minds. That's not being naive."

"Maybe." Hermione twists her fingers in her sleeves. She chews on her lip. Sighs. "All I know is that the whole of the Department of Mysteries is in an uproar this morning about what's going to happen to our research."

Amongst other things, Harry's certain. Whatever intel the Unspeakables have collected throughout Kingsley's tenure as Minister is now going to be available to Marchbanks. Merlin only knows what she'll do with it. 

Hermione rocks forward, her hands settling around her knees. It's a nervous tic she's had since their days at Hogwarts, whenever she gets too anxious. "Kingsley's moving out of the Minister's Office as we speak. He's planning on taking a longer holiday on south coast according to rumours." She gives Harry an even look.

Harry remembers the little house that Kingsley escaped to during difficult times, somewhere in the vicinity of Lyme Regis. He envies him briefly. "Christ, this is going to be a clusterfuck." If even Kingsley's abandoning them, Harry doesn't know what they'll do. "Marchbanks is going to fuck over this whole country."

"Worse than, I'd say." Hermione reaches for the paper bag, handing it over to Harry. "Here, at least eat your croissant."

Harry's heart is heavy as he tries to swallow a few flaky bites of the croissant. He barely tastes it. He's been counting on Kingsley's support as a last resort . He hears the echo of Rosier's voice, telling him to find what's his. Merlin, Harry's fucking tired of that sodding cup. But it's his only way back to Draco. To keeping him safe from whatever fucked-up torments Rosier'd be willing to inflict on him. 

No one ever said Death played fair, after all. 

Hermione just watches him. She's quiet for a long moment, and then she sighs again. Flicks a nonexistent piece of fluff off her skirt. "There's also the matter of Malfoy," she says, her voice soft. She looks away, her lip caught between her teeth. 

"Marchbanks won't let us go after him." Harry knows the lay of the land. "Not without making me bend to her will." Harry thinks about doing so, wonders if letting Marchbanks use him as her puppet to the masses would be worth getting Draco out of Oudepoort. Except he knows Draco would kill him for that. 

Or maybe he wouldn't. Harry doesn't know any longer. 

He drops his croissant back into the paper bag, then looks over at Hermione. "What can we do now? We have to get him out." Or die trying, Harry thinks grimly. Only the hope of seeing Draco is keeping him going these days. He can't admit to her the frisson of hope that'd gone through him at seeing even the figment of Draco last night. The terror at the idea that Draco might be hurt. Badly. 

But Harry knows there's nothing he can do. On his own at least. Other than find that fucking cup for Rosier, and even then Harry's no guarantee that Rosier will stay away from Draco. Death could be toying with them all. 

And probably is.

"Saul has an idea about Malfoy." Hermione crosses her legs, her green tweed skirt shifting subtly. She smoothes out a slight wrinkle. She looks up at Harry, her brow furrowed. "But you're not going to like it."

Fuck that. "If it gets Draco out, I'll kiss him on the mouth. Maybe even with tongue." Harry's not actually joking.

Hermione wrinkles her nose. "Really, that's not necessary." Her face shifts from disgust to caution. "Do you know Anna Picquery?"

Curious, Harry nods. "American solicitor, defended Eddie Durant once or twice." He remembers her vaguely as a confident woman, well able to hold her own against the MACUSA Aurors. "Seemed rather well acquainted with the underbelly of the American wizarding world."

"Yes." Hermione strokes the glossy surface of the leather ottoman. "That's whom Olivia Zabini sent to help, which might be a fortuitous thing." She looks up at Harry. "Picquery's had contact with us from time to time--"

"With the Unspeakables?" Harry doesn't quite know what to think about that. 

Hermione's nod is curt. "British and American." She hesitates. "But the thing is, she also has ties to Aldous Yaxley's organisation. Hence why she came to Eddie Durant's defence in July."

And really, Harry doesn't like where this is headed. He sets the paper bag down, brushing crumbs from his lap. "Is this a good thing?"

Hermione just meets his gaze. 

"What are you asking?" Harry's stomach twists. "What does Croaker want--"

"For Malfoy to go undercover." Hermione's voice is soft. Careful. 

It burns Harry to his deepest core. And Harry gets it now, finally. He wants to laugh, a mad bark of bitterness that's bubbling up inside of him. He pushes it down. As if this bloody nightmare could get any worse. 

Harry draws in an unsteady breath. "With Yaxley." 

For a moment Hermione hesitates, and Harry thinks she's going to tell him he's mad, that of course Croaker would never be that cruel. That bloody self-righteous. "We can use Picquery to broker it. She's already approached us; it seems Yaxley's interested in Malfoy's Legilimency abilities." Her gaze softens as she looks at Harry. "And it will get him out of Oudepoort."

Who the fuck cares if it's just out of the cauldron into the flame? Harry's stomach sinks. "There has to be another way."

"Not without causing an international incident," Hermione says. "One that Marchbanks won't tolerate." 

And Harry knows she's right. But still. "You can't ask him to do this, Hermione. Yaxley knows he's with us. Knows Rodolphus is his uncle--"

"Malfoy's a tool he can use." Harry's never seen Hermione this calm. This calculated. This is the Unspeakable in her, he realises, the part of Hermione that frightens Harry sometimes, the part that'd set Snape's robes on fire in school and hit Cormac McLaggen with a Confundus Charm during Quidditch tryouts. "He's already interested, Harry, and he can get Malfoy released whenever he wants. Picquery's willing to push Yaxley to do so." Harry starts to object, and Hermione holds up her hand. "Remember, Malfoy's still an active Unspeakable. If he's given this assignment, he'll do it. And we need eyes in Yaxley's organisation."

"They'll kill him--"

"Not likely." Hermione reaches out, catches Harry's hand. He wants to pull away, but he doesn't. He can't. She strokes a thumb along his wrist, and Harry's suddenly aware that he's sat here like a fool in nothing but a near ruined shirt and his pants, nearly three hours late to work. She must think him mad. 

He probably fucking is. 

"You have to trust Malfoy," Hermione says after a moment. "I know you want to rush in and save him, but he's trained for things like this. He's been an Auror for years, and an Unspeakable--"

"For only a few months," Harry says, and he knows he sounds bitter. He doesn't care. "Less than, really, if you count all the time he's spent in prison."

Hermione doesn't answer. Harry knows he's being unfair. He sighs, looks away. 

"Fine," he says finally. "Say he agrees to this idiocy. Once he's done what you want him to do, how will we get him away from Yaxley?"

To Harry's annoyance, Hermione just shrugs. "Honestly, we haven't got that far. First we have to shore up the country, keep the intelligence community from falling apart under Marchbanks, and save Draco from prison. Maybe then we can figure out an exit strategy."

"But you do plan to help him?" Harry's not sure what to think. At the moment, he'll grasp at any straw. "He is going to survive this? You'll get him out in the end?"

"This isn't the first time an Unspeakable's done this." Hermione's eyes are on Harry's. "We know how to pull our assets out of difficult predicaments. I know this is hard for you, Harry, and I'm sorry. But it's the only way." She lets his hand slip from hers. "Maybe if Marchbanks hadn't been brought in…" She trails off. Looks away. 

Harry knows she's right. The playing field's changed now. Whether or not any of them like it. 

"Well, then we'll have to hope that Yaxley's hiring." Harry wads the bag in his fist, tossing it toward the coffee table. It misses. "I'll support it. How do I fit in?"

Because Harry'll be damned if Saul Croaker's going to shut him out of whatever he has planned for Draco. 

If the man he loves is in danger, Harry's fucking well going to right in there with him. However he can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will post on or around February 11. If you need status updates, please go to my tumblr (linked below). I usually put up a note there if something's up.
> 
> While you're waiting for the next installment of how Draco and Harry will deal with all the crap being thrown at them here, Noe and I wrote a Drarry dads Christmas fic for sassy-cissa called [All I Want For Christmas (Is For You To Stop Talking)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16810249/chapters/39457795). It's (relatively) angst-free. Well. Compared to Special Branch, that is.
> 
> As always, you can subscribe for Tales from the Special Branch updates [here on AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/series/661862) or follow me [on tumblr at femmequixotic!](http://femmequixotic.tumblr.com). I'm taking Special Branch asks there.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hermione goes to work and Pansy sees her mother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings, Special Branch readers!!! This chapter is a bit shorter than usual--I'm on vacation and I promised my family I wouldn't write too much while I'm with them. With Noe and Cissa's help, I plan to be posting regularly this spring. I'm starting a new job, but things are heating up in the Special Branch universe, and priorities are priorities! As always, I'm grateful for your continued reading of this little tale. Now, courage! Remember, things have to get worse before they can get better.

The soft click of Hermione's glossy black heels echoes in the silence of the marble-floored corridors. The Department of Mysteries has been hushed for the past two days, quiet conversations happening in shadowed corners, behind closed doors. A collective unease shifts through the air, carried on whispers and uncertain glances and arms folded tightly across chests. 

It's been that way for most of the Ministry since the announcement of Griselda Marchbanks' takeover. No one knows what to think. What to do. 

Except her supporters, of course. They've been smugly pleased with themselves, and Hermione can't stand it. She'd come home last night nearly livid with fury; it'd taken half a bottle of wine and a good fuck with Ron first across the kitchen table, then another in their bed an hour later to take some of the edge off. She's still sore today, although she supposes the hour she'd spent at the gym before coming in to work, throwing kicks and punches at a boxing bag, hadn't helped. At least she's not poor Ron. Hermione'd caught a glimpse of her husband's back whilst he was getting dressed this morning; she'd scratched him up terribly. Perhaps she ought to feel guilty about that, but the way he'd kissed her, a mug of Yorkshire Gold cupped in his hands, before she'd Floo'ed out had taken away any shame she might have had about last night's activities. That's what she loves about Ron, how easy and right it feels between the two of them. It always has, even during their most intense rows. Hermione doesn't believe in soul mates, not really, but if she did, she's certain Ron would be hers. No matter what anyone else might think. 

Hermione's fingertips brush her abdomen, quick and light, barely touching the light wool of her black pencil skirt. They'd been talking again about a baby before all this came up. Hermione knows Ron wants to be a dad; he's just waiting for her to decide. And Hermione wants to be a mum. She really does. But she's only just turned twenty-seven on Tuesday. Not that anyone other than Ron had really noticed, bless him. Well, and Luna, who always sends a gift every year, wherever she might be. Molly and Arthur had firecalled, but it'd been late in the evening, and Hermione suspects it'd taken a nudge from Ron to remind them. Even Harry's forgotten this year, but Hermione forgives him that. He's out of his mind with worry and grief over Malfoy, and she doesn't expect him to think about her now, even as she knows he'll be horrified when he realises the day's gone by already. But she's closer to thirty now, and that seems the right time to think about kids. Family. No matter how terrified Hermione might be about the whole process, about possibly sabotaging her whole career over a baby. Saul Croaker won't be happy with her if she does. 

And Hermione's not certain it'd be right to bring a child into the world. Not when it's in this much chaos. Not when magical Britain seems to be imploding again, in ways that worry Hermione, that keep her up at night, questioning whether this is just politics as usual or something more sinister, more dire. Whatever it might be, there's a nasty business brewing. Hermione knows that with every fibre of her being, and she doesn't care for it. She's studied the political conditions that led up to the First Wizarding War and the Second, and what she's seeing now, with all this turmoil in the Ministry makes her worry. 

Things might just go badly for them all.

She stops in front of a heavily carved black door. Takes a deep breath. Straightens her shoulders. Her hands are clammy; she wipes them across her skirt, straightens her white silk shirt. Ron had told her this morning she looked as if she were going to a funeral today. Hermione thinks she might be.

The door creaks as she opens it. Heads swivel towards her. She steps into the conference room, her heels sinking into the plush carpet. She closes the door behind her; the brass knob is cold beneath her palm. 

"Granger," Croaker says from the head of the conference table. "Good of you to join us." He sounds irate, which only annoys Hermione, given that he'd summoned her here at the last minute.

Still, she manages to keep her voice even as she says, "I came as soon as your memo arrived." It'd caught her in the middle of another morning meeting, one with her own team, all of them clamouring about the plummet the Galleon has taken in Britain since Kingsley's been ousted. Honestly, Hermione thinks they're all bloody mad. The Galleon will settle, she's sure of that. It always has before, and she's no doubt the goblins will let the Ministry know if she's wrong. There are worse things to be concerned about now that Marchbanks is stepping into the plush, mahogany panelled Ministers office floors above them.

Personal freedoms to begin with. That might be something well worth getting one's knickers in a twist over. 

Hermione looks around the table. Most of the men--and they're all men; Hermione's the only woman amongst them, typical for Croaker, she thinks bitterly--are from various departments in Mysteries. Her colleague John Routley from the Unspeakables is sat at the end of the rectangular table, and he moves his notepad over as Hermione takes the open chair beside him. Across the table is Bhatti from the Brain Room, Ticknall from the Hall of Prophecy, and Quince from the Time Room. Poor jittery Winston Ames, the assistant director of the Death Room, is lurking in a chair in the corner of the room, pale and tense, his quill tapping out an unsteady rhythm against his notebook. He's an odd one, Hermione thinks, but they're all a bit off, those Unspeakables experimenting with Death. They keep to themselves, and there's only a handful of them left since the war. The rest went a bit mad, she's heard. Had to retire early. She leans back in her chair. So all the departments are here then, except Love and Space. Odd, that, but Hermione knows better than to ask why. Publically at least. 

"So." Croaker leans back in his chair. "There's a bit of a flurry going on about our new Minister of Magic." His eyes narrow ever so slightly. "And whilst I understand some of you are great supporters of our last Minister--" Here his steely gaze shifts over to Hermione. "We're still required to uphold the laws of magical Britain as best we can." He drums his fingertips against his chair arm. "But I'll be damned if I let things go tits-up in the process."

Hermione pulls a self-inking quill out of the pocket she'd charmed into her skirt the day after she'd purchased it at Marks and Sparks. She starts to write _Ministerial follow-up: 22/9/06_ across the top of her notepad, the nib of her quill scratching softly across the ivory paper. Her hand barely shakes, but somehow a smudge of ink smears across the bottom of the six as she draws the quill aside. She doesn't want to be here. She can't bear the thought of discussing Marchbanks calmly and rationally. Not when she wants to rage against the injustice of what's been done to Kingsley. To all of them, really. 

John Routley clears his throat. "What do you expect us to do, sir?" John's always been good at making Croaker think he respects him. Hermione knows otherwise. He's spent more than one post-meeting debrief in her office raging against Saul's management of the department and its resources. Hermione's always defended Croaker, but now she wonders if John has the gist of their boss better than she's had these past years. 

Croaker frowns at John. "Well, for one, I'd like to know if we've any prophetic indication of what might happen in Griselda's administration." He looks over at Ticknall. "Edgar?"

Ticknall twists a bit in his seat. He's a large man, both in height and girth, his skin sweaty and pale at all times. Hermione's always thought he looks a bit desperate, like an oversized trout flopping about on a fishing hook, but he's a brilliant Divinator. "We're not certain yet," Ticknall says. He rubs the back of his neck, just below the greying ginger of his hair. "None of our on-staff Divinators have received anything, but we've had word of one of the Seers we keep an eye on possibly having a moment. I've sent Tupper and Cobden up to Inverness to talk to her this morning, but she's a wild one, so Merlin only knows if she'll let them near her. She gets a bit wonky after the Sight comes in. Takes a day or two for her to calm down."

"Any idea of what she might have seen?" Croaker asks, and Ticknall shakes his head. 

"The prophecy alert only went off in the middle of the night for us," he says. "Bucknell found it when she arrived this morning. We won't know what came through until Tupper puts our Seer under a trance again to collect it, but the emotional reading of the alert indicates that whatever it was that she saw upset her rather badly."

Bhatti leans forward, his elbows on the table. He's ancient, his brown face a mass of wrinkles, and Hermione's fairly certain they'll walk in one day and find him dead at his desk in the Brain Room. He's devoted to his work, and no one's been able to convince him to retire, even if he's well over ninety. Not that anyone would want to. Bhatti's a brilliant researcher. His bright brown gaze pins Ticknall down. "You don't even know she saw anything about the country," he rasps. "Could have been a personal vision. Seeing the death of someone she loves, that sort of thing."

"Always true." Ticknall nods. "Tupper won't need to collect it if that's the case."

"It might not be." Quince from the Time Room clears his throat. He's small and mousy, and Hermione's always wondered if he might have a goblin ancestor somewhere in his family tree by the way his ears stick out just a bit more than usual on either side of his head. A shock of thick white hair is swept back from his furrowed forehead, and the light from the round, black iron chandelier over their heads glints across the small, circular glasses perched on his bumpy nose. "We've been seeing a bit of a bobble in the flow of time coming down the road."

Croaker gives Quince a sharp look. "Abnormal?" They all know bobbles crop up every so often; it's the way time twists and turns throughout the universe, sometimes coming back on itself to give those moments of déjà vu. Time isn't always linear, after all, and the Time Room's job is to make certain it doesn't get too snarled up.

Quince shrugs. "More as if it's in flux. Hasn't made up its mind yet if it's going to be a normal little bobble or not, I'd say. Depends on whatever happens around it."

"Right." Croaker rubs his silver-bearded jaw. He doesn't look happy. He leans forward, eyes Hermione and John beside her. "Anything strange coming up in intelligence?"

To be honest, Hermione doesn't know how to answer that. And she's not certain, even if she did, that she'd be willing to give Saul an honest answer. She doesn't trust him at the moment, not after how he's gone after Kingsley in recent weeks, undermining him until Marchbanks' coup was unavoidable. 

So she lets John lean forward, as much as it pains her to be spoken for by a man. "Only rumblings," John says. He twists his quill between his fingertips. The nib slides across his skin, leaves behind a small, blue smudge of ink that John doesn't seem to notice. "The usual uncertainties that crop up with a power exchange." His gaze shifts towards Hermione, almost hesitantly, as if he's asking permission of her. She just raises an eyebrow and waits for him to go on. John clears his throat, shifts in his seat. "Some of the more conservative political factions on the Continent are taking note of Marchbanks' rise." He rubs his thumb along the edge of his notepad. The page in front of him is covered in his impossibly messy scrawl--nearly as terrible as Harry's, Hermione thinks, and her stomach twists a bit. She's still worried about him. He's not taking the Marchbanks news well, but she's grateful, at least, that they've a plan in place for Malfoy. Not that Harry likes it all that much. 

Croaker frowns. "Which ones, Routley?"

"The Liga Stregata in Italy," John says. "And the German Magische Volkspartei. "

"Weren't they supporters of the Death Eaters?" Bhatti asks. His forehead furrows, his silver-grey eyebrows drawing together. "Marchbanks is coming down hard on that lot--"

"It doesn't seem to matter," Hermione finds herself saying. The men all look at her, a bit sceptically with the exception of John who seems relieved to have her speak. Hermione tries not to hate them; she knows it's more her youth than anything that they object to. Someone her age isn't supposed to be as high up in the Unspeakables as Hermione's found herself. She doesn't really give a damn what they think, though, so she lifts her chin and says, "Marchbanks may not be a blood purist, but she's far less progressive as a politician than Kingsley was. They expect our work on relations between humans and non-humans to be rolled back, and they're probably not wrong. That plays into policies they support on the ICW level. Not to mention, our restriction of humanitarian rights if the Death Eater Registry passes. We put that into play and more conservative governments have an ICW-sanctioned precedent in place for other population registries. Maybe even ones like the Muggleborn Registry established under Voldemort--"

At the name, Ticknall, Bhatti, and Quince flinch. Hermione thinks for a moment Ames might pass out over in his corner, his eyebrows rising at her temerity. Even John looks away, obviously uncomfortable. Hermione doesn't care. It's all she can do not to roll her eyes at their reactions. Honestly, it's been eight fucking years. Voldemort shouldn't hold this much sway; the bastard's dead, after all. 

Croaker just looks at her, almost dispassionately. "Are our analysts concerned?"

"Gently worried," Hermione admits. "Although our primary focus at the moment has been the dip of the Galleon, particularly against the Dragot."

"It'll stabilise." Croaker waves a hand dismissively. "The goblins will make certain of that." He glances over at Ames, almost as if the young man's an afterthought. "And what does the Death Room have to say about this, Winston?"

Ames' knee bounces up and down; Hermione's half-certain he's going to snap his quill in half with how tightly it's clutched between his hands. He clears his throat. "The Veil's a bit louder." The tip of his tongue sweeps across his bottom lip; he leans forward, his elbows on the arms of his chair, his shoulders hunched. "Never a good sign, that. Usually means there's to be an influx of new souls going through." Ames presses the toes of his brogues into the thick carpet. He's only a year younger than Hermione, but she can't help thinking of him as just out of Hogwarts. His gaze darts around the room. "Mr Guo'll be analysing the recordings later today; he's in Paris this morning, consulting with L'académie des arts merveilleux about a similar issue they've been having on their side."

"We haven't been informed about that," Bhatti says with a frown, and Hermione's nostrils flare in irritation. The Brain Room thinks that all international research should go through them, which is ridiculous and does nothing more than create an academic bottleneck. But what does Hermione know? She's only on the political side of things, after all. 

"Careful," John murmurs beside her, and he gives her a small smile. He knows all too well how annoying she finds the researchers; he shares her same exasperation with the Unspeakables who hide away in their research labs, refusing to go into fieldwork. Not that Hermione denies the importance of their analysis. She just loathes their sense of superiority towards the Unspeakables who actually get their hands dirty in the real world. 

Still, she makes herself relax against the smooth leather of her seat. It creaks softly beneath her as she shifts, crosses one leg over the other. 

Bhatti's still complaining about the audacity of the director of the Death Room not running his research through his department when Croaker raises his hand, quieting him. "Randeep," he says wearily, "we'll address the issue when Hanwen returns. At the moment, however, if there are any concerns your department has regarding the current situation within the country…" He raises one eyebrow, and Bhatti frowns. 

"I don't know," Bhatti says, his voice sharp. "Perhaps the fact that our whole bloody society has lost its collective mind? Shacklebolt's ousting was entirely illogical." His eyes narrow at Croaker. "And I'm not half-certain your antics, Saul, haven't led us to this crisis point." 

The two men scowl at each other, and Hermione's surprised both by Bhatti's rancour as well as his blunt honesty. He's only saying what Hermione's thought herself but wouldn't have the courage to point out to her boss. At least not that directly. Perhaps Bhatti's age and seniority in the Department of Mysteries gives him a freedom Hermione can never quite feel. Having a prick probably helps as well, she's sure. Croaker would never consider himself misogynistic, but Hermione's had to argue her point with him on more than one occasion whilst he's accepted her male colleagues' ideas without question. It's a subtle difference, but it's most certainly there.

"Any issues you might have with my actions," Croaker says, his voice deadly quiet, "can be brought to me privately, Randeep." He leans forward, his eyes glittering. "Not here."

The conference room is silent. Hermione can hear John's shallow intake of breath beside her as Bhatti and Croaker glare at each other, tension crackling between them. 

Bhatti looks away first. Heaves a sigh. Croaker leans back in his chair.

"Our recent calculations," Bhatti says, more than a bit grudgingly, "give Marchbanks' administration a twenty-three percent chance of being stable. The political gulf between her policies and those of her detractors is wide enough to make us concerned about the possibility of civil unrest." His gaze flicks over to Hermione for a brief moment, then slides away again. It's enough to make her feel uncomfortably exposed, and she looks down at her notepad. The margin's filled now with swirls and curves of black ink from the doodling she hadn't even realised she was doing.

"There's not a strong contender for a political opponent," Croaker points out, and Bhatti shrugs. 

"Six months ago, I wouldn't have wagered money on Griselda Marchbanks toppling Shacklebolt's administration," Bhatti says. "But here we are now, aren't we? Anyone could come out of anywhere to challenge her. The question is whether we want to adopt a wait and see policy or search for our own candidate to put forward." He shrugs. "We had mixed results when it came to Scrimgeour, after all."

Hermione's quill stops moving across her notepad. Black ink seeps out of the nib, staining the pale paper. "We put in Scrimgeour?"

Bhatti's bitter laugh is dry, rattling. "How'd you think that happened, girl? Saul and I forced Fudge to resign and made certain Scrimgeour was ready to step into place." He eyes her. "Shacklebolt was ours too, but he lasted longer, thank Merlin."

"There was a war," Ticknall points out. "It's not as if Rufus was politically ousted. You-Know-Who assassinated him."

"A technicality," Bhatti says, waving his hand dismissively. "If Scrimgeour'd actually listened to us, he might still be Minister today."

None of this settle Hermione's unease. She's always known that her department influenced politics in ways most British wizards and witches would never understand. But this is more than she'd expected, and the Gryffindor in her doesn't like it. 

"Enough," Croaker says, and he sounds tired. Worn out. He falls silent, his mouth a thin line as he stares down at the conference table in front of him. The others shift uncertainly, waiting as their boss considers. 

And then Croaker heaves a heavy sigh. "I want full reports from each of your departments within the next twenty-four hours at the latest," he says after a moment. "Charmed for my eyes only. We need to be fully prepared for all possibilities, positive and negative, so make certain your analyses are thorough. Understood?" Heads nod around the table. "Good." Croaker slaps his hand against the smooth wood of the table. "Now get out of here."

There's a rustle of papers and a scrape of chairs as the others start to stand. Hermione's only just risen to her feet when Croaker points a finger at her. 

"Granger," he says. "A word."

John gives Hermione a sympathetic look, but he makes his escape along with Bhatti, Ticknall and Quince, the bastards. Ames has already scurried out of the room, almost silent in his fleeing. Hermione doesn't sit again. Whatever Saul's going to throw her way, she wants to be on her feet. 

Croaker waits until the door closes behind the others, shuffling his stack of papers calmly before he looks up at Hermione. "Malfoy," he says after a moment. "Where are we on that front?"

That's not a question Hermione was expecting, although perhaps she ought to have been. Saul had made it perfectly clear earlier in the week that he wants Malfoy undercover with Yaxley's organisation, whatever it might be. Still, Hermione shifts from foot to foot. Despite what she told Harry two days ago, she's nervous about this plan.

"Anna Picquery's still brokering the possibility." Hermione's fingers tighten around the edge of her notepad. "If she can convince Yaxley and Malfoy both to accept, Goldstein's team will be running point on our end." She hesitates, then adds, "I thought it best to be in the background on this one, given my relationship to Harry."

Croaker gives her a knowing look. "And Potter's to Malfoy."

Hermione just shrugs. "Yaxley's going to be suspicious as it is." She bites her lip. "We're asking Malfoy to go into a dangerous situation. One wrong move, and Yaxley'll kill him." 

"Malfoy's an Unspeakable," Croaker says calmly. 

"Barely." And that's what bothers Hermione the most. "He's not even had proper training--"

"I rather think the Auror force took care of that for us." Croaker stands, gathers his stack of papers. "He's not the first Auror to join us and be expected to carry his weight on a mission that could go badly. I'm not about to give him special privileges just because Potter's buggering him."

Hermione flinches, frowns. "That's not what I'm saying."

"Isn't it?" Croaker's gaze is even, and Hermione looks away. 

She knows there's a grain of truth to his accusation. If this were anyone else, any other Unspeakable, Hermione would understand the value of worming their way into Yaxley's circle. But it's Malfoy they're speaking of, and Hermione knows what it'll do to Harry if something happens to him. Harry's only just managed to pull himself together. She's not sure she can face what Harry might do if Malfoy does die this time. How he might hate her in the end. 

"We need this intel," Croaker says, and there's a gruff kindness in his voice that makes Hermione glance back up at him. His face is sober. Set. "We know Yaxley's involved in Dolohov's schemes. In Lestrange's as well. We need Malfoy in there, need his neuromancy skills. You know that."

Hermione does. "That doesn't mean I like it, though," she says, and she hates the way her voice cracks. Hermione does her best not to show weakness at work. It lessens her in the eyes of the men around her. But today, she can't help herself. This is all too much. Malfoy and Marchbanks, and her concern about Harry and his determination to do anything he has to in order to make this easier for Malfoy. The guilt she feels when Ron looks at her, his brow furrowed, trusting her to do what's best for all of them when Hermione doesn't even know what the hell that might be any longer. She draws in an unsteady breath, presses her lips together as she tries to exhale. Croaker just watches her. 

"Malfoy's complicated," she says finally. "He's not just an asset."

She doesn't tell Croaker that Harry wants to be involved in their plans. She knows too well he'd object, and she wants to give Harry at least a fighting chance before Croaker shuts him down.

"I would suggest," Croaker says softly, "that you reframe his position. In this moment, Draco Malfoy is an Unspeakable. Nothing more. And he'll do what we ask of him."

But will Malfoy really? Hermione's not certain. "What if he refuses, Saul?" They've not thought about that, have they? They've all just assumed Malfoy will do what he's told, but he's a Slytherin, not a Gryffindor. "What if he tells Picquery to sod off?"

Croaker's mouth twitches. "You're not this much of an idiot. That young man will do anything to get back to Potter, I'm certain. You tell Picquery to hold that over him. He does this for us, or he rots in Oudepoort for the rest of his life with no hope of coming back to Britain or Potter. Plain and simple." He picks up his stack of papers, holding them in one hand. His bright blue gaze is sharp as it sweeps over Hermione. "Do I make myself clear?"

"Perfectly," Hermione says, her voice tight. She's never hated Saul Croaker more than she does right here, right now. 

Croaker studies her for a moment, then her nods. "Then make it happen." His eyes narrow. "Sooner rather than later, yes?"

Hermione nods, unable to say anything else, and Croaker strides past her, the door to the conference room shutting behind him with a solid thunk. 

Slowly Hermione sinks into one of the padded leather chairs. She stares at the gleaming walnut tabletop, her heart sinking. 

The threads of fate are slipping from her hands, Hermione realises. One by one, and if she can't control them any longer, can't weave them together in a way that keeps safe the ones she loves--and the ones they love in return--Hermione doesn't know how to stop the implosion she's certain is coming. 

She's never felt more bloody useless in her life. 

Hermione grips her notepad tightly. Closes her eyes. Breathes out, then back in again, trying to calm herself, trying to wish away Marchbanks and Yaxley and this Gordian knot they've all caught themselves in. Trying to tell herself that everything will be fine. That Malfoy will be safe. That Harry won't do anything stupidly rash. 

If only she could believe any of that was true. 

Her eyes flutter open. She stares blankly at the pastoral painting hanging on the wall across from her, a bucolic meadow and cloudless blue sky, tree branches and grasses swaying at the touch of an invisible breeze. A pity she can't hide herself in the strokes of paint, away from all of this madness crashing towards them.

At least Voldemort's still dead, Hermione thinks grimly, the last decaying bits of his body hidden far away in the recesses of the Department of Mysteries, in a location so protected that even she doesn't know where his corpse is being kept. It's best that way. The last thing any of them need right now is some twisted fool like Rodolphus Lestrange making Voldemort a perverse martyred saint, beatifying the scraps of his body into relics for his fucked-up cause.

It's not as if Hermione doesn't understand Marchbanks' fear of the Death Eaters' zealotry. Of what that hatred and bigotry might cause them to do. She'd seen it written across the faces of Voldemort's most devoted followers during the trials after the war, and that fanaticism, that mad belief that they'd been right, still terrifies Hermione. 

But Marchbanks scares her as well. Maybe not as deeply as men like Yaxley and Lestrange, but Griselda Marchbanks and her ilk have a frenzied dogma of their own that unsettles Hermione. Makes her uncertain about the future of her country. Of her government. 

She huffs out a small sigh. Pushes herself to her feet, a weary exhaustion washing over her.

The whole world's going mad, Hermione thinks. And she's not certain she can stop it any longer.

Maybe none of them can.

Fuck it. She straightens her shoulders. Smoothes her silk shirt. Tries to hide her fears behind a calm mask of competency. The only thing she can do now is her job. And Hermione's bloody determined to do it as best she can. Whatever might be coming her way.

Hermione strides out of the conference room with as much confidence as she can muster. If she's going to save the world, however she can, there's a hell of a lot of work to do. Fretting about it won't get it done.

The door closes behind her with soft thud.

***

Perhaps she ought to have knocked harder, Pansy thinks, as she frowns at the heavy, glossy white front door to Daisy's old Knightsbridge flat that her mother's been staying at the past few weeks.

When her mother's note had arrived through the Ministry post an hour ago, its terseness had worried Pansy. _Please come by as soon as you can_ is all Camilla had written beneath her black copperplate monogram at the top of the creamy sheet of paper. Not the sort of missive Camilla Parkinson usually sent to her younger daughter--those were often far more demanding, detailing precisely how Pansy would fail her if she didn't arrive when Camilla expected her to. Besides, Pansy's never seen her mother use the word please in any of her requests to her, and on top of that, she'd been half-certain there'd been a bit of a wobble to her mother's elegant script, small blotches of ink and faint smears that indicate she'd been in a hurry to fold the note up and send it to the Ministry by owl.

All of which makes Pansy's anxiety go up. So she'd escaped her lab, telling Jonesy she needed an early lunch, and taken the Muggle Tube over from the Westminster station. Perhaps she ought to have Apparated, but she'd needed the time to prepare herself for whatever her mother wants from her, and it'd felt oddly better to be surrounded by Muggles, all of them lost in their own worries and concerns, none of them even casting a second glance Pansy's way as the train rumbled and swayed beneath the London streets. Still, the whole time, she'd felt shadows over her shoulder, gathering, brooding. It's mad of her, Pansy's sure, but she feels a sense of foreboding hanging over London that she hasn't been able to shake. 

It's Marchbanks, Pansy suspects. She hasn't slept well since the news came out that Griselda would be taking over the Ministry. Two days ago, Pansy'd stood in the Ministry atrium, shoulder to shoulder with Blaise and the guv, arms crossed over her chest, the three of them surrounded by witches and wizards from all the departments, grimly watching as Kingsley Shacklebolt had made his last speech to them. He'd looked tired. Broken. And she'd felt Potter's fury radiating from him, nearly incandescent in its intensity, as Shacklebolt had thanked his supporters, promised them hope he knew full well he couldn't give them, then turned away and walked down from the Ministerial dais one last time.

Nothing's felt right since.

Last night had been awful; Pansy'd spent it on her sofa, curled up in the blue light of the telly, watching the Muggle news in between fitful bouts of dozing. Althea'd found her there at half-three when she'd come out to the kitchen for a glass of water, and somehow she'd managed to get Pansy back into bed, lying down beside her until Pansy'd finally drifted off to sleep for a few hours, the warmth of Althea's body pressed against hers, calming, steady, comforting. With Althea curled around her, Pansy's swirl of thoughts and worries had settled just enough to let her rest. It's never been like that before, sharing her bed with someone. Pansy doesn't entirely understand it, and she knows it's foolish of her. The feelings she has for Althea are too deep already. Too frightening. Too unrequited. Althea'd been back in her bed when Pansy'd woken up just past seven to the mad beeping of her alarm. Pansy'd hated that, hated finding herself alone. It'd put her off, set her on her back foot first thing, and she'd been heartsore and irritable ever since.

And to make matters worse, she's seeing things. Sleep deprivation, most likely, but she could have sworn that, coming out of the Knightsbridge station, she'd caught a glimpse of bloody Death himself on the sidewalk, bleached white bones pushing at the face of a rough sleeper on the kerb begging for spare coins in front of an upscale home furnishings shop, Rosier's bright blue gaze following her from the man's shadowed eyes. When she'd looked again, the man's face had shifted, his irises now a deep, muddy brown, his jowls wrinkled, his beard more matted than she'd first thought as he'd held his hands out to her, pleading for money to eat. She hadn't any Muggle change to spare, and the exchange left her rattled.

She's still unsettled, if she's honest. Even though she's half-convinced herself she imagined it all. That moment in Louisiana, deep in the crypt, has been haunting what few dreams she's been having as of late. She hasn't told anyone else about what she's seen in her sleep, about the threats Death has made to her. It's nothing, after all. Just her mind remembering the horror of that evening, weaving it into her guilt at leaving Draco behind, her worry about his safety. 

Potter's not the only one who feels culpable for what they'd done.

Another solid knock against the thick wood of the door. It echoes down the carpeted corridor Pansy's stood in, but there's still no answer. 

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Pansy murmurs. It seems rude to just burst in, but Pansy doesn't have all day to waste, and she's worried enough about her mother. She slips her wand out of its holster, hidden by her neatly tailored suit jacket, the black wool just light enough for the faint warmth of late September. A quick flick of her wrist, and her sister's wards fall, recognising her as part of the family. Pansy's fingers curl around the wide doorknob, the brass cool and smooth against her skin, and she pushes the door open with a soft grunt at the effort when it sticks just a bit. It's not often it's used; Daisy and Eustace had always gone in and out by Floo, and Pansy suspects her mother does as well. But she hadn't wanted to Floo from the Ministry here; she doesn't trust Jonesey not to follow her travel records. He can be a bit of a creeper at times.

The foyer of the flat is familiar, even if it's been years since Pansy's been in it. Black and white tiles gleam as if they've just been swept and polished, and a bouquet of red roses sits on a heavily carved gilt console that Pansy's fairly certain is Edwardian. But the petals, reflected in the enormous gilt mirror hanging over the console, are wilting a bit, and the water in the crystal vase needs changing. Pansy frowns. That's not like Camilla. 

"Hello, Mother?" Pansy's voice is hesitant, cautious. Her footsteps echo in the silence of the foyer as she walks towards the sitting room, and her sense of unease grows as she pushes open one of the wide oak doors. "I received your note…" She trails off, the words catching in the back of her throat.

A scene of devastation lies before her. Her mother's housekeeping is usually tidier than Pansy's own perfectly organised laboratory. But here, console drawers are open, their contents spilling out, and piles of clothes fill the sofa. In the corner, the half-glass doors of the large cupboard where Daisy's always kept her part of the family heirlooms are ajar. Pansy's Auror instincts kick in. Someone's ransacking the flat. Her mother might be held captive. Or worse. She thinks about sending for backup, but the guv's tied up with Robards and Bertie right now, and Pansy hasn't seen Blaise since their team meeting, such as it'd been, this morning. Jonesey'll be of no use, of course. Anyway, there's no time. 

Noises rattle beyond the French doors leading to the kitchen. Pansy flattens herself against the inside wall, trying to make her profile small, to find a strategic position before whoever's in the flat figures out she is here. She breathes out, draws her wand, her fingers tightening around the carved hilt as her body tenses. 

Pansy hears the creak of the French doors opening, and she whips herself around the sitting room door, her wand raised high. 

"Stop right there," Pansy snaps. The tip of her wand wobbles only a bit as the figure emerging from the kitchen turns around to look at her.

To Pansy's complete surprise, her sister Daisy's stood in the middle of the hallway, a pile of silk scarves in her arms. Daisy eyes Pansy, tilting her head and frowning. "Are you all right, sister dear?"

One of Daisy's great talents, the one that drives Pansy completely mad, has been inherited from their mother: the ability to look as though she always belongs where she is, regardless of context, requiring the person opposite her to feel as if they ought to account for their whereabouts. Pansy feels that pressure acutely now. She hasn't seen Daisy since that night in Pansy's New York hotel room when her sister informed her she was going away with Dmitri Godunov. And now here Daisy is, in her old flat, asking Pansy if she's well rather than explaining why the bloody hell she's in London in the first place.

Without telling Pansy she'd arrived.

"I'm fine," Pansy says tersely, following her sister back into the sitting room. She holsters her wand, her suit jacket swinging back, then brushes an imaginary piece of lint off of her woolen trousers. "What are you doing here?"

Daisy sighs, laying the delicate, billowing pile of scarves down across the arm of the blood red leather chesterfield. She gestures at the chaos around her. "I think you can imagine." Her gaze finds Pansy's. "Mummy's coming with me."

Pansy blinks at her sister, folds her arms over her chest. "I see," she says, even though she doesn't quite. "Who knew you had such filial piety?" She can't keep the bitterness out of her voice. It's always been Camilla and Daisy, their heads bent together, both of them leaving Pansy to her father. And look where she is now. Estranged from the one person in her family who'd at least tried to understand her. 

Except that's not entirely fair, is it? Pansy knows her mother and Daisy have tried over the years. Even if they hadn't understood why she'd wanted to do something as common as go into the Aurors, particularly given the fact that her father would have handed her any job in his corporation that she wanted, the same as he had with Daisy. 

But Pansy hadn't wanted that. She'd wanted to make her own way. To be independent of her family. And she is, somewhat. Even if her family and their secrets seem ready to threaten the livelihood she loves. 

Daisy's silent for a long moment, and then she sighs. "Don't start, Pinks." She sounds tired, and there are lines beside her mouth that weren't there when Pansy'd last seen her sister. "I haven't the energy."

As if Pansy does. Still, she manages to hold her tongue. Somewhat. "Mother didn't mention to me that she'd be going abroad." She eyes Daisy. "Or is she?"

"Nice try, darling." Daisy's mouth twitches ever so slightly at the corners. "I'm not telling you where we're going, but rest assured Mummy took some convincing. She didn't want to leave you alone." 

"Oh," Pansy manages. She leans against the back of the chesterfield, her hands smoothing across the tufted red leather. She studies her sister, taking in the faint purplish shadows beneath Daisy's brown eyes, the messy knot of dark hair twisted at the nape of Daisy's neck, the loose grey knit tunic over black yoga pants, its wide neck sliding over Daisy's narrow shoulder, giving Pansy a glimpse of Daisy's collar bone. Her sister's thinner, gaunter, and Pansy's never seen Daisy look so unkempt. Daisy's always been the chic one, even in the most casual of settings. Now her hair's unwashed, and Pansy doesn't even think her sister's bothered to put makeup on today. It's been years since Pansy's seen Daisy barefaced. "Are you all right?" she asks impulsively. 

Her sister turns away. "I'm fine," she says, but Pansy knows she's lying. 

"Dinks," Pansy says softly, "I'm not an Auror right now, all right? I'm your sister, and if there's anything you need--"

"There isn't." Daisy's voice is quiet, low. 

"Is he hurting you?" Pansy needs to know. She doesn't trust Godunov. Not with her sister.

"Dmitri?" Daisy laughs, but it's weak, and Pansy's not convinced. "No." She shakes her head. "He's good to me." Her mouth twists to one side. "Better than Eustace was at least. May he rot wherever the American bastards have thrown him." She shrugs. "You'd know more about that than I do, Auror sister of mine." There's a whisper of bitterness in her voice.

Pansy bites her lip. Glances away. She wonders where her mother is. Wonders if she's listening in on her daughters the way she had when they were younger, when they'd fight and squabble, mostly because Pansy wanted to follow Daisy everywhere and her older sister wasn't having any of that. Pansy feels as if she's always been trailing behind Daisy, always trying to catch up, to be worthy, to meet the expectations of anyone who'd ever met her sister before her--and they almost always had when she was younger. It's only been in the Aurors that Pansy's found her own place, away from Daisy. Perhaps that's why she treasures it so. Being an Auror is the one thing Pansy has that her sister can't touch. 

Even if it's driven a wedge between them now. 

"I'd help," Pansy says finally. "If you let me."

Daisy looks up from where she's straightening a pile of cashmere that's fallen over. "I know." She meets Pansy's gaze, steady and calm, but there's a brittleness to her that makes Pansy worry. And then Daisy smiles at her, and it's as if she's not a care in the world. "You know what you can do, though? Help me fold these. I need to pick the best ones, and you know how Mummy can be about her woolens."

That Pansy does. Camilla's always taken particular care with her clothing, tucking jumpers and tweeds away in cedar chests at the end of winter to keep the moths away. 

"All right," Pansy says, even though she doesn't want to, but she moves around the corner of the chesterfield towards her sister. Daisy picks up a bright red, whisper soft cardigan and hands it to Pansy, who folds it gently, recalling how it'd felt against her cheek when her mother came to visit her at Hogwarts one fall weekend in her first year. She'd been so proud of her mother's elegance as she'd shown Camilla off in the Slytherin common room; the other girls had been so jealous of her mother's black tweed skirt and polished boots, as well as the ruby ring glinting from her long fingers, the one that Pansy's always coveted. It'd been her grandmother's, and her grandmother's before her, a gleaming crimson emerald-cut gem that shone beautifully out of a simple gold setting. Pansy lifts the cardigan to her cheek. It's as soft as she remembers it, and it still smells faintly of a French perfume, the familiar one her mother's worn since before her girls were born, custom-mixed by a wizarding parfumier in the sixth arrondissement. Pansy breathes in lilies and something spicier underneath. For Pansy, it smells like childhood, like Camilla, like home, and she blinks back the sudden warmth of tears. 

Daisy's hand settles on Pansy's shoulder. It takes all Pansy has not to flinch at the touch. But her sister doesn't say anything, doesn't point out Pansy's emotional bobble. She just lets her hand rest there for a moment before sliding it away. Pansy sets the red cardigan down and reaches for another jumper, a lilac cashmere that's a perfect fit to her mother's willowy frame. She folds it, smoothing the front down as she sets it aside.

Together, Pansy and Daisy work silently next to each other, sifting through the simple refinement of their mother's favourite pieces, folding them one by one and making a neat stack. Pansy tries not to think about what it means, watching pieces of her life history assembled for travel, until she can't help herself. She folds the last cardigan, a lovely grey and rose Icelandic yoke made of the softest lopi, then looks over at her sister.

"Is Mother leaving because of Daddy?" Pansy asks. She knows it's most likely not, but she needs to hear Daisy say it. Her mother won't talk about the implosion of her marriage any longer, not since that one night when she'd come to Pansy's flat on Shabbos and told Pansy she was moving in here. Pansy hasn't wanted to press her lately, and, if she's honest with herself, she's been more focussed on Althea than her mother's troubles. Which probably makes her a terrible daughter, she supposes, but she can't really bring herself to feel too awful. Not when her mother's obviously been in contact with Daisy and not telling her. Pansy's still miffed about that.

Daisy picks up the stack of jumpers and cardigans and carries them over to a console table set between two wide paned windows. She turns around, leans against the console, her hands curved around the edge, her shoulders pressing forward. She looks like a fragile bird, Pansy thinks. A curl's slipped out from the knot at Daisy's nape; it brushes against her cheek. Daisy chews on her lip, then says, "Saul Croaker firecalled Mummy two nights ago and told her that she had to leave at once, preferably before the weekend." She looks sideways at Pansy. "Mummy contacted me for help."

And that's a stab in Pansy's chest. "She could have come to me." She hates that she sounds so desperately needy. 

Daisy's face softens. "You're an Auror, Pinks. Mummy didn't want to get you in trouble."

"I'm her daughter." Pansy's voice is raw against her throat. "Just as much as you are. But she doesn't trust me, does she?" She doesn't know why she bothers asking. She knows the truth. 

"Don't be ridiculous." Daisy runs her hands over her face, then crosses her arms against her chest. "I knew it'd be like this when you found out. I told her she should talk to you--"

Pansy's throat aches. "I don't need your help--"

"Circe, Pans!" Daisy looks away, her frustration echoing between the two of them. She hunches her shoulders, twists her fingers in the grey knit of her tunic. "This isn't some childhood drama we're reliving here. Do you know what's going to happen to this bloody country now? Fucking Saul Croaker is warning our mother to get out because of Daddy's stupidity, and we should be grateful they're cousins, because what if she waited until the last minute? What if she's caught here with that fucking Registry? She'll lose everything, and so will I, and so will you, Pinks." Daisy's voice cracks. "Daddy might not have been a Death Eater, but he worked with them, and he's only just escaped Azkaban once…" She presses her lips together, breathes out heavily.

It's a deep truth that Pansy's been dancing around naming since Marchbanks won power. She's heard whispers around the Ministry, seen how the guv's looked day by day, grimmer, warier. It's coming for them, soon. Marchbanks, whoever is in charge, will lead the hounds, and the Death Eater Registry can't be far behind.

"You ought to be running yourself," Daisy says, her voice soft. 

Pansy knows her sister's right. But she can't leave her little motley crew of misfits: Althea, and Blaise, and Potter himself. She can't give up on bringing Draco home. 

"That's not going to happen," Pansy says heavily. She sits on the edge of the chesterfield, picks up one of her mother's silk scarves and runs it through her fingers. "I'm an Auror. If I ran…" Pansy shakes her head. "It'd mean something different."

Daisy just looks at her. "And that's the problem, isn't it?" She gives Pansy a half-smile. "They've corrupted you, that lot. Made you noble and all that rubbish."

"Not quite," Pansy protests, but it's weak. Daisy's not wrong in a way. "I'm sat here talking to you, aren't I? Not firecalling headquarters to tell them I've found you."

"It's the Americans who'd care more." Daisy's laugh is warm. "But I do appreciate your sisterly concern." 

Pansy wonders where Daisy's been these past months, what she's been doing. If it's legal or not. Most likely the latter, she suspects. She knows Daisy'll never tell her, but she can't stop herself from saying, "I suppose I shouldn't inquire about where you've been hiding."

"If you weren't an Auror, I might tell you." Daisy's laugh is sharply mocking, but her eyes are warmer than Pansy expects. She walks over to the chesterfield, sits on the end opposite Pansy. "Honestly," she says, not looking at Pansy as she reaches for a scarf, "I wouldn't want to compromise your oath of allegiance, Pinks."

Something irrational rises in Pansy then, a childish anger at always being last to know. Daisy and Mother and Daddy had always kept things from her, always seen her as the little one, needing to be protected. She resents them for it, terribly. "I don't tell the Aurors everything, you know." She bites her lip. "Besides, we're all but pariahs ourselves these days." Pansy clears her throat. "Seven-Four-Alpha, I mean."

"I know." Daisy smoothes a hand over a folded length of emerald green silk, gently fitting it into a rectangular leather bag with several compartments like a large wallet. She looks up, meets Pansy's surprised gaze. "I have my sources still."

Pansy wants to ask who, but she holds her tongue. 

Daisy sets the wallet aside. "Can I give you a bit of sisterly advice?"

"I haven't a choice, I'm certain." Pansy wishes she had a drink. A glass of wine or a shot of vodka. Anything to help her deal with the surreality of this conversation.

"Not really." Daisy turns towards Pansy. There's a spot up near her hairline, almost too small to see, but Pansy does, and it makes her feel better that her perfect sister has a flaw. Until she feels horribly guilty for thinking that. Daisy reaches towards Pansy, her fingers brushing Pansy's thigh. She draws back when Pansy doesn't move, doesn't take her hand, and she sighs. "If you're going to stay here, Pinks, you need to let Tony help you. He wants to--"

"You've spoken to Tony." Pansy's aghast. Daisy hates Tony, or so she thought. She leans back against the side of the chesterfield, twisting a black scarf around her hands. "How?" And why hadn't Tony told her he'd been in contact with her sister? He'd known she's been worried.

Daisy shrugs, as if it doesn't really matter to her, and for a moment, Pansy hates her sister. "Sometimes the things we share are more important, darling, than our differences. And I've never been formally charged, even if Dmitri and I are people of interest."

"This is mad." Pansy shakes her head, her emotions a whirl inside her. "Tony ought to have turned you in." A small voice tells her not to be silly, to pay attention to the fact that Daisy is still with Dmitri Godunov, that Tony cares enough about her to risk contacting her sister, that he knew where they were, and that the situation in magical Britain must be dire indeed if this is what makes sense. "Why wouldn't he--"

"Because he knows what's coming." 

Pansy looks away, towards the windows that look out over a small park, the tops of the still green trees filling the panes. She doesn't like the shiver that goes through her. "When did he talk to you?" she asks. She has to know how long it's been going on. Has to know if she can trust Tony or not. 

"Yesterday," Daisy says. "Just before he helped me into the country. I suspect Croaker had something to do with it all, since Tony and I Portkeyed into the shul. Mummy's all but confirmed that." She looks over at her sister. "Does it matter?"

"I don't know," Pansy says, honestly. She hasn't seen Tony in weeks, but she knows he's back in the county. None of this makes sense. Her head aches; she presses her fingertips to her temple. "What did he say to you?"

Daisy doesn't answer at first, then she settles back against the arm of the chesterfield, pulling her bare feet up to press into the scarlet leather of the cushion. Her toenails are painted a dark plum; the colour makes her feet look pale. The pile of scarves is a barrier between them, fragile and small and nothing more than symbolic, but Pansy's grateful for it.

"He thinks you should leave," Daisy says at last. "Even though he knows you're too bloody stubborn to go until the last minute. You idiot." Her small smile's affectionate. 

Pansy looks down at the black silk crumpled in her lap. She smoothes it out, folds it, before setting it aside. "I don't want to run away," she says, her voice just a whisper. She glances back over at her sister. "There are people I can't leave behind." Her throat hurts. She thinks of Althea, who'll she'll never walk away from. Not right now. Not whenever whatever this is between them is just starting to unfurl. And then there's Blaise. He might have Durant with him now, but Pansy couldn't abandon him either. Or the guv, who only has them, really, his small and broken team, alongside Granger and Weasley. Pansy knows he needs her with Draco gone, whether or not Potter understands that need. Perhaps it's not very Slytherin of her to stand her ground. Or perhaps it is, that unwavering protectiveness of those she deems worthy. It'd been the only way she and Blaise and Draco and Millie had survived the war and its aftermaths, after all. Closing ranks, defending one another against the onslaught of anger and hatred that had come their way. She draws a deep breath, then lets it out slowly. "I can't let myself, Dinks."

"Our people have always fled ahead of the storm," Daisy says lightly, her hand hovering over a red and purple patterned scarf. "We're the children and grandchildren of the survivors. Even with magic, the pogroms were not easy to survive. And we won't speak of Grindelwald and the madness that Britain and the States colluded in."

Pansy knows the stories. Knows the losses their family had suffered during those years. But still. This is different. She rubs a thumb over the smooth, shiny leather beneath her thighs.

"We're not just victims," she says finally. "We can be on the wrong side, too." Pansy looks over at her sister. "We shouldn't have supported Voldemort. And you know that Daddy's perilously close to war criminals even now." She leans her head against the high back of the chesterfield. "Merlin, Daisy, so are you." Her sister glances away from her, her lip caught between her teeth, and Pansy knows she's struck a nerve. She reaches out over the pile of scarves, lets her fingers brush her sister's arm. Daisy hesitates, then holds her hand out, her fingers curling lightly around Pansy's. "Our family has survived, yes, but we've also underwritten crimes against others."

Daisy shakes her head, gives Pansy a rueful smile. "Always the idealist, aren't you? You've been around the Gryffindors too long."

And that stings, it truly does, but Pansy brushes it off. "You know I'm right."

"Perhaps." Daisy lets her fingers slip away from Pansy's. She leans forward, her elbows on her knees. "But who's this impending legislation going to catch? Who will be ruined by the Registry? The powerful? Or the women, the elderly, the children, the vulnerable?" She shakes her head. "It'll just be an excuse for we British to feel strong as a nation whilst attacking the usual targets." She looks over at Pansy. "Men like Daddy will always escape."

"The guv won't let them." Pansy's close to tears now. She's been agonising over this same question herself, trying to imagine they'll be safe whilst planning for disaster. "At least, I don't think so." She picks up a brown tweed skirt from the round ottoman in front of the chesterfield, folds it in half.

"Potter can't save you now, Pinks." Daisy's brow furrows, and her mouth twists to one side. "He's tarnished goods, not just because he fucked a Malfoy but because he's bent, a queer. They've always been easy targets, the faggots."

And then Pansy's on her feet, her whole body shaking with fury; she can't stop herself as she walks over and slaps her sister. "Take it back," she says, her voice low and fierce. "Don't you _dare_ use that word around me."

Daisy rubs her cheek, a look not of anger, but of contemplation on her face. "Oh, it's like that, is it?"

Pansy's quiet for a moment, looking away, not even feeling her legs buckle under her as she sits on the ottoman next to the pile of clothes. She almost drops the skirt in her hands, then carefully sets the nubby tweed aside, before pressing a knuckle to her mouth. 

The room is silent, the tick-tock of the mantel clock loud in the room, the whirring, rumbling clamour of street traffic distant beyond.

A few months ago, Pansy would have been outraged on behalf of Draco, of Blaise, perhaps even of the guv. Now she feels a curious, crawling fear, something more difficult to acknowledge, something new. Deep in her gut, she knows that what Daisy is saying affects her too, and it terrifies her. 

Pansy feels tears welling behind her lashes. "I know you're right. I do, but I hate it." Her voice burns in her throat. "Just please don't use words like that." She can't bear it. Not towards Potter. Not towards herself. Because she's not straight herself, not the way she'd thought she was, and the shock of that realisation, that acknowledgment makes her draw in a ragged gasp. She presses her hands against her face, trying so hard to keep herself in check. She doesn't want to do this, doesn't want to admit who she is to her perfect sister. 

Except Daisy's not so perfect. Not any longer.

"Oh, Pinks." Daisy pushes herself off the chesterfield and walks over to the ottoman. She sits next to Pansy, enfolding her in warmth, her skin redolent of orange flower water and amber. 

Pansy can't voice the sob that's building in her chest, threatening to choke her. Her sister strokes her hair, slowly, carefully, the way she had when they were younger, when Daisy would come home from Hogwarts and Pansy would find herself in her sister's room, crying desolately over some perceived slight--rightly or wrongly--their mother had caused her. And it's that gentle touch that's Pansy's undoing. 

"I'm a bit queer too," Pansy manages to choke out, and then the tears come, pouring down her cheeks, and her shoulders shake with the enormity of what she's telling her sister. 

And Daisy just pulls her closer, letting Pansy sob against her. She rocks Pansy gently, her hands smoothing down Pansy's back, her lips pressed against Pansy's temple. "I didn't realise, darling. I'm so sorry." She laughs, a quiet huff of breath against Pansy's cheek. "About being so thick, I mean. Not about your…" She hesitates, then says, "Being bent? Can I call it that?"

Pansy can't help her own laugh, muffled as it might be by her tears. "I suppose." She doesn't really know the ins and outs of all this yet. "I'm not quite a lesbian though. I still enjoy a lovely prick."

"Bisexual then." Daisy leans back, looks at her sister. "How terribly trendy of you."

"Cow." But Pansy leans her head against her sister's shoulder. "Don't tell Mother? I'd rather her not hate me."

Daisy smacks the back of Pansy's head lightly. "She won't. She'll just be horrified and furious about the potential loss of grandchildren. On the positive side, she might actually support your relationship with Tony."

Pansy gives her sister a baleful glare. "I'm not certain I want that." She hesitates, then adds, "Or him."

"Oh," Daisy says. She eyes Pansy thoughtfully. "Is there a reason for that?"

"I would think so," says a soft voice from the sitting room doorway, and Pansy looks over in horror to see her mother standing there. Camilla's watching them both, an odd expression on her face. It's careful, but gentle in a way Pansy doesn't understand. She sits up, wiping her thumbs across her eyes as her mother steps into the room. 

"Mother," Pansy says, as calmly as she can, taking the handkerchief her sister's found for her, then blowing her nose delicately. She tilts her head back and blinks her eyes to keep her mascara from running. "How long have you been standing there?"

Camilla smiles a bit ruefully. "Long enough." She stops at the arm of the chesterfield, her gaze fixed on Pansy. "Perhaps the better question is how long have you been in love with Althea?"

And Pansy knows then, without a shadow of a doubt, that it's true. She's in love, that horrible state she'd promised herself she'd never indulge in, no matter how close she and Tony danced to its edge. Her stomach lurches, and for a moment she thinks she might sick up right here on her sister's terribly expensive Axminster. She grips the side of the ottoman, suddenly grateful for Daisy's warmth beside her. 

"Mummy," Daisy says warningly, but Pansy knows she's curious too.

Camilla sits on the chesterfield, her legs tucked at a slant, ever so proper in her charcoal pencil skirt and black jumper. Only her mother would wear kitten heels to pack up her flat, Pansy thinks, and she wants to laugh, but she can't bring herself to. Instead, she looks at her mother, meeting Camilla's gaze tragically. She can't answer the question because she doesn't know how, but she doesn't pull away as her mother reaches out and clasps Pansy's hands between her own.

"It's all right," Camilla says softly. Her gaze flicks towards Daisy, and there's a touch of annoyance in the way her mouth purses. "Whatever your sister might think."

Daisy just raises an eyebrow. "I wasn't aware you were so progressive."

Their mother snorts. "I'm not a fool, Daisy. I can see what's in front of my eyes." Camilla looks back at Pansy. Her fingers stroke the back of Pansy's hands; her thumb makes small circles across Pansy's knuckles. "I've watched long enough, and I know you, darling. I've seen the way you look at her."

Pansy doesn't know what to say. "I'm sorry," she manages, but Camilla shakes her head.

"Don't be." She lets go of Pansy's hands, but only so she can reach up, cup her own around Pansy's face. "I'm not going to say I understand entirely. Perhaps I'm too old to do so properly. But I love you, my Pansy. Whatever you might think. I know I've been hard on you over the years. I know I've had my expectations that were, perhaps, excessive." At Pansy's snort, Camilla smiles, ever so faintly. "But I've always wanted you to be happy. In my own way." She draws back, rests her palms against her thighs. The ruby Pansy's always loved glints from her right ring finger. Camilla twists it back and forth for a moment, then she looks back up at Pansy. "I'm right, though. About you loving her."

All Pansy can do is nod. 

"What about Tony?" Daisy asks. 

It takes Pansy a moment, but she manages to say, "I don't know." And she doesn't. She cares about Tony. Lusts after him still. She doesn't know what any of that means, though. Not right now. She's confused and uncertain, but she knows her mother's not wrong about how she feels towards Althea. 

She just doesn't know how to love. Not properly, at least. And Pansy's terrified by the very idea of trying. She curls her fingers into fists, her thumbnails biting into her palms. This isn't how she thought her lunch would go. Finding her sister in London and coming out to her mother. A wild laugh bubbles up inside of her; Pansy only just manages to fight it back. 

Camilla's quiet. 

Daisy rubs her palm against the small of Pansy's back. It's a simple touch but more comforting than Pansy would have expected. 

"Well," Camilla says finally. "The whole of wizarding society's imploding around us, so I think we can accept whatever this might be for you, darling." She gives Pansy a small smile. "Although it might have been nice to find you a lovely wizard to settle down with--one who isn't a Goldstein, of course." And here she sniffs in annoyance. "However, I suppose that didn't really work for your sister--"

"Oh, it bloody well didn't," Daisy murmurs, and her mother casts a narrowed glare her way. 

Camilla turns back to Pansy. "It's not as if I managed a proper relationship either in the end," she admits, and a look of sadness crosses her face. Pansy knows her mother still loves her father, which perhaps makes the sting of her father's multiple betrayals so bitter. Camilla shakes her head, gives Pansy a small smile. "So if you're happy, I'll be happy for you, my darling."

"And if I'm not?" Pansy finds herself asking. 

Her mother frowns at her. "Then I'll simply have to hex that girl out of your life, won't I?"

Pansy's mouth quirks up on one side. "You're terrifying, you know that, yes?"

"I've cultivated it for years," Camilla says. Her fingers smooth back a wisp of Pansy's hair. "Your mascara's run. You look an utter fright."

And that's the Camilla Hirsch Parkinson Pansy knows and loves. "I didn't realise I'd need to charm my makeup in place this morning." She catches her mother's hand and presses a kiss to her fingers. "Your owl worried me."

Her mother looks pleased with herself. "I wanted you to see your sister." She glances between her two daughters. "It appears I'm going away for a bit."

"Obviously." Pansy eyes the piles of clothes spread across the sitting room. "It's not the worst idea."

"No." Camilla hesitates, then adds, almost nonchalantly, "You could come with us."

But Pansy's already shaking her head. 

"I thought not." Her mother sits back, but her face is sad again. "And that's why I'm certain you love her, you realise." She sighs. "I would have done the same for your father at the beginning."

"You don't love him now?" It's hard for Pansy to ask, even though she knows her mother does. But she needs Camilla to say it, to tell her she hasn't given up on Terry Parkinson. Not completely. For all her father's sins, for all his foolishness, Pansy will always care about him. She'll always want her parents to be together, even as she knows her mother's better off on her own. 

Camilla glances away, twists her hands together. "I'll always love Terry. But sometimes that's not enough." Her eyes flutter closed for a moment. She exhales before opening them again, looking back at Pansy. "It's difficult to explain, I suppose."

But it's not. Pansy understands in her own way. So she reaches out, curls her fingers around her mother's again before turning to her sister, holding out her other hand. Daisy takes it without saying anything, and they sit there together, mother and daughters caught in a moment. 

And then Camilla smiles at them both, perhaps a bit wan, perhaps a bit weary. "You're Hirsch women," she says. "You've as much my mother and grandmother's blood in you as your father's line, and we've always been stronger. We've had to be, generation after generation." She looks between Pansy and Daisy, and there's a glint in her brown eyes. A determination. "Whatever's coming, we'll face it, the three of us. You're my daughters, and I know you'll survive."

"We're Hirsches," Daisy says quietly, and their mother nods. 

"Always and forever." Camilla squeezes their hands. "Promise me you'll remember that, no matter how dark the coming days might be."

Pansy looks over at her sister. "Always and forever," she echoes. Daisy smiles. 

It's a promise Pansy knows she can keep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter should post the week of St Patrick's Day. 
> 
> As always, you can subscribe for Tales from the Special Branch updates [here on AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/series/661862) or follow me [on tumblr at femmequixotic!](http://femmequixotic.tumblr.com). I'm taking Special Branch asks there.


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